THE  ISSUE 


EDWARD  NOBLE 


•72 

x^ 


THE  ISSUE 


T  h  e    Issue 


A  Story  of  the 
River    Thames 

By 

EDWARD  NOBLE 

Author  of  "The  Edge  of  Circumstance" 


"  The  ited  ye  tow  another  reaft; 
The  wealth  ye  find  another  keeps; 
Tht  robes  }e  weave  another  wean; 
fhe  arms  ye  forge  another  tears." — SHELLEY. 


NEW  YORK 

Doubleday,    Page  &  Company 
1907 


Copyright,   1906  and  1907,  by 

Doubleday,  Page  &  Company 

Published,  February,  1907 


All  rights  reserved, 

including  that  of  translation  into  foreign  languages, 
including  the  Scandinavian 


PUBLISHER'S  NOTE 

This  story  originally  appeared  in  England  under  the  title 
Fislterman's  Gat. 


203627*4 


CONTENTS 


PART  i. 


CHAPTER 

I. 

II. 

III. 

IV. 

V. 

VI. 

VII. 

PART  II. 

I. 

II. 
III. 
IV. 

V. 
VI. 

PART  III. 

I. 

II. 

III. 

IV. 

V. 

VI. 

VII. 

VIII. 

IX. 

X. 


and  a 


The  Legend  of  the  Gat  ...  3 
Susie  Watches  a  Procession  .  .  20 
Saunderson  Seeks  Advice  .  .  -27 
Mrs.  Sutcliffe  Deals  the  Cards  .  36 
And  Plays  her  Hand  .  .  .48 
Susie  Revokes  .  .  .  .  56 
The  Inquisitor 63 

£en  and  <HWt  9£a0ttr 

The  Master        .         .         .         .         .69 

The  Sea-wall  .         .,       .      '.  .         .         80 
Clack         .         .         .         .         .         .90 

Micky  Doolan  Explains  ...         94 
Mother  Keyne    .         .         .         .         .100 

The  Woman  Pays  .         .         .         .109 

<&|)e  laitJec  of  Eife 

Inquisitorial  .  .  .  .  .123 
Sutcliffe's  Return  ....  126 

The  Search 134 

Saunderson  Plays  a  Trump  .  .  141 
Sutcliffe  Seeks  a  Reply  .  .  .148 
The  Difficulty  of  Belief  .  .  .159 
A  Curtain  Lecture  .  .  .  .170 
Zulu  Supplies  a  Parallel  .  .  174 

The  Methods  of  the  Scorcher  .  .185 
In  Limine  ,  ,  ,  194 


PART  iv. 


ot  tfie 


PART  v. 


I. 

II. 
III. 
IV. 

V. 
VI. 

I. 

II. 

III. 

IV. 
V. 


PART  vi. 


I. 

II. 

III. 

IV. 

V. 

VI. 

VII. 

VIII. 

IX. 


Saunderson  Moves 
Conditional     . 
Tom's  Defence  . 
The  Sea-wall 
The  Sluckit-sasser 
Tooth  and  Nail 


feaunumfon 

The  Prophecy  of  Old  Moore 

Tony  Produces  his  Link 

The  Strike 

Finem  Respice 

Snuffles      .... 


"10UU  C&auntUt" 

A  Woman  Passes 

The  Freedom  of  a  Slave 

Mrs.  Surridge  Gives  Advice 

Saunderson  's  Luck  Changes 

Mrs.  Surridge  Moves 

BillMarley     .         .         . 

A  Challenge       . 

The  Issue       . 

The  Two  who  Sowed  . 


209 
218 
228 
238 
246 

253 

267 

275 
284 

3°3 
3H 


323 
333 
338 
346 

352 
363 
378 
384 
39 J 


Epilogue  . 


406 


DRAMATIS   PERSONS 

Jim  Saunderson,  a  skipper  of  coasting  vessels  and  a  labour 
leader.  An  agitator  of  meagre  education  but 
with  the  gift  of  speech.  Leader  of  the  Riverton 
Strike  and  a  man  of  passionate  characteristics, 
handicapped  throughout  by  his  dread  of  the 
supernatural — "  the  Curse  of  the  Gat "  as  he 
terms  it. 

Susie  Sutcliffe,  a  mistress  in  a  Church  school,  and  refined 
and  gentle  beyond  her  station.  She  is  the  belle 
of  the  village,  and  is  loved  by  the  two  men, 
Saunderson  and  Elliott. 

Jack  Elliott,  skipper  of  the  tug,  Stormy  Petrel,  who,  in  the 
work  of  salving  a  derelict  becomes  involved  also 
in  the  Curse  of  the  Gat.  A  fact  of  which  he 
does  not  know,  and  if  he  knew,  one  at  which  he 
would  laugh.  A  quick  tempered  and  rather  im- 
petuous character.  One  of  the  more  modern 
Thames  skippers. 

Micky  Doolan,  a  yarn-spinning  Irishman,  mate  of  the  Tanta- 
lus, and  later,  skipper  of  the  Stormy  Petrel. 

Wakeley  Dunscombe,  the  men's  master.  A  hard  man  who 
grinds  his  hands  in  the  mill  of  competition  with- 
out remorse. 

The  Scorcher,  his  successor  and  a  chip  of  the  old  block. 


Tony  Crow,  the  village  blacksmith.  Strong,  honest,  and  not 
swift  of  comprehension. 

George  Sutcliffe,  an  old  type  "  Thames  skipper,"  a  man 
going  slowly  down  hill;  oppressed  by  his  wife's 
oratory,  staggered  by  her  biblical  quotations — 
and  conscious  only  of  his  love  for  "the  Lass," 
Susie,  the  child  of  a  former  marriage. 

Mrs.  Surridge,  Susie's  aunt,  wife  of  Tom  Surridge,  a  small 
farmer  living  on  the  Thames  borderland.  The 
pair  act  as  father  and  mother  to  the  girl  after 
she  leaves  Abbeyville. 

Sailors,  bargees,  shipwrights,  "  Cementies." 

SCENE 

Abbeyville,  Riverton,  Swinfleet — towns  and  villages  on 
the  Thames  between  Long  Reach  and  the  Nore.  The 
Estuary,  London  Docks,  and  the  old  river. 


PROLOGUE 

Far  out  admidst  the  labyrinth  of  shoals  which  throng  the 
river's  mouth  lies  Fisherman's  Gat. 

A  narrow  strip  of  seething  foam  marks  the  place  at  low 
water;  but  when  the  tide  is  high,  and  the  sea  smooth,  small 
vessels  can  pass  the  bar  in  perfect  safety. 

It  is  the  fisherman's  gateway  through  the  Long  Sands,  and 
saves  many  a  mile  to  those  who  use  it.  Some  en  no  account 
would  make  a  passage  there;  others  laugh  and  blithely  sail 
on.  But  the  superstition  which  was  woven  about  the  place 
deep  in  the  shadow  of  by-gone  years,  dies  slowly,  and  those 
who  believe  will  go  far  to  avoid  the  misery  of  the  curse. 

For  here,  in  the  path  of  the  Gat,  on  soft,  sheen ey  nights 
when  the  moon  is  only  thinly  veiled;  or  when  the  Gat  has 
bared  its  teeth  before  the  spume  and  smother  of  a  southeast 
gale,  sounds  drive  down  the  wind  and  a  shadow  of  a  man  is 
seen,  sometimes  rowing,  sometimes  standing,  sometimes 
struggling  with  a  boat — and  the  curse  of  the  Gat  falls  on  all 
who  see  him  at  his  task. 


PART  I. 

TWO  MEN  AND  A  MAID 


part  I 
cuio  e^en  ana  a 

CHAPTER  I 

THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  GAT 

NO  WIND,  high  water,  sundown — and  a  schooner 
crawling  slowly  up  the  Black  Deeps. 

The  river  eyed  her  sleepily.  It  made  pictures  of  her 
rigging,  her  sails,  her  attenuated  masts;  it  sketched  very 
correctly  a  dangling  jib  sheet  with  a  too  large  block,  hanging 
from  the  bows;  then  threw  out  little  rills,  soft,  oily,  indefinite, 
and  the  picture  was  blurred.  It  took  now  the  appearance  of 
a  drawing  carelessly  blotted.  The  lines  became  straggled,  the 
sails  blotched  and  ragged,  the  ropes  efforts  of  a  tribe  of  spiders 
with  inky  legs;  again,  in  a  moment,  it  stood  perfect.  The 
rills  had  vanished.  The  river  slept. 

Across  the  sky  a  lightship  began  a  succession  of  pale  flashes, 
then  relapsed  into  apathy.  Farther  afield  the  Kentish  Knock* 
swept  the  horizon  with  a  methodical  swing  that  drew  attention 
to  the  isolation  of  its  post:  over  in  the  south  the  Edinburgh* 
blinked  like  a  busy  star  on  a  frosty  night,  holding  a  race  with 
the  Deeps,*  and  beating  it  shamefully. 

From  somewhere  on  the  schooner's  decks  came  a  voice: 
"Dead  cawlm  an*  the  wind  south."  It  added  after  a  pause, 

*Lightships  in  the  estuary. 


4  THE  ISSUE 

as  though  questioning  this  pronouncement;    "stick  out  your 
lights — then  maybe  we'll  see  where  it  is." 

Some  one  yawned. 

In  the  silence  it  seemed  that  the  river  took  up  the  sound  and 
pushed  it  into  the  picture.  The  water  swirled  in  oily  stretches 
and  fell  with  a  rush  past  the  cutwater:  it  looked  up  the  rudder 
trunk,  gurgling  and  full  of  strange  anxiety;  it  lapped  in  the 
grass  and  slime  of  the  bends  and  grew  quiet,  lazily  quiet  in  its 
march  to  the  flat,  gray  sea. 

A  man  came  to  the  rail  and  hung  out  the  sidelights — two 
small  dabs  of  colour.  The  schooner  now  looked  like  a  toy, 
standing  on  a  sheet  of  glass  and  illuminated,  for  children  to 
play  with.  High  up  amidst  the  shadows  aloft  the  sails  flapped 
the  rigging.  The  sound  held  the  echo  of  cheers,  the  clapping 
of  hands,  laughter. 

The  river  smiled  at  the  notion  of  additional  colour.  It 
took  the  dabs  on  its  brush  and  put  them  into  the  picture. 
Like  the  wax  of  two  guttered  candles,  crooked  and  inclined  to 
blob,  they  ran  down  to  the  margin — red,  green. 

Far  up  the  Deeps,  where  the  shadows  were  grayer  and  less 
luminous,  where  sea  and  sky  melted  into  one,  a  piercing  eye 
appeared,  scintillating  and  throwing  out  rays.  It  was  as 
though  a  hole  had  been  punched  in  the  grayness  and  a  light 
stood  behind.  Beneath  it  again  were  two  small  dabs  of  colour 
— green,  red.  A  shadow  lay  behind  all  three  which  the  water 
mimicked  faithfully. 

A  tall,  squarely  built  man  moved  from  the  wheel  and  stared 
into  the  depths.  He  had  the  air  of  one  supremely  alert  as  he 
stood  there  marking  the  lights  and  watching  the  shadow  grow- 
ing so  rapidly  abeam.  The  sails  clanged  in  the  darkness. 
Chains  rattled.  The  mainsail  fell  to  leeward  with  a  slap  that 
lifted  the  boom  from  its  somnolence  and  the  picture  quivered 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  GAT  5 

with  its  fall.  The  gleaming  eyes  approached  swiftly  in  the 
form  of  an  equilateral  triangle,  the  apex  of  which  was  white. 
From  the  shadow  came  a  dull  rumbling  as  of  a  distant 
train. 

The  man  moved  back  to  the  wheel  and  rattled  it  down. 
"Just  my  thunderin'  luck,"  he  growled;  ''wind  nowhere, 
kites*  all  up  and  down  the  mast — like  a  yard  of  pumpwater." 
Then,  after  a  considerable  pause:  "Stand  by  to  down  kellickf 
an'  some  of  you  come  aft  an'  trip  the  luff  of  this  flamin' 
whanger."^ 

The  crew  shuffled  to  obey  orders  and  the  man  resumed  his 
watch.  The  eyes  fascinated  him.  They  appeared  disdain- 
fully conscious  of  the  power  which  drove  them.  They  seemed 
to  hint  at  the  ease  with  which  that  small  schooner  could  be 
wiped  from  the  riverscape  and  blotted  from  remembrance. 
Again  he  shouted  gruffly :  "  Blow  your  horn  there,  some  one ! " 
and  remained  at  attention. 

A  faint  purr,  husky  and  supremely  inefficient,  fell  upon  the 
silence.  The  shadow  swerved  slightly,  rumbled  into  promi- 
nence, swept  across  the  bow,  and  passed  into  the  haze.  A 
swell,  trailing  like  a  sinuous  snake,  followed  in  its  wake.  It 
crossed  the  schooner's  track  and  she  rolled  to  the  music  of 
slammed  doors.  Her  head  strayed  idly  round  the  compass, 
she  appeared  profoundly  disturbed  by  the  sudden  awakening; 
she  brought  her  eyes  over  to  examine  the  vanishing  steamer 
and  the  man  growled:  "Manopolies  .  .  .  wage-cutters 
.,  .  .  sweaters!  Lumme!  if  I  had  my  way  wiv  you,  you 
might  say  your  prayers."  His  glance  fell  on  the  crew  watching 
with  stolid  unconcern  and  he  shouted  further  instructions: 
"Let  go!  Drop  your  stays'ls  on  the  cap.  Clew  up  an'  give  her 
forty-five  when  she  bites." 

*Sails.     f  Anchor.      {The  mainsail. 


6  THE  ISSUE 

He  spoke  as  though  he  proposed  giving  a  meal  to  a  famished 
dog:  but  the  men  knew  that  no  feast  was  in  preparation.  They 
crossed  the  deck  and  started  a  long-drawn  minor  shout;  the 
sails  clanked,  fell  with  a  rush,  and  the  jingling  note  of  a  loosed 
cable  filled  the  night  with  jets  of  sound.  He  who  had  set 
these  wheels  in  motion  turned  on  his  heel  and  went  below. 
He  was  the  Bluebell's  skipper — Saunderson. 

In  select  circles,  at  home  in  Abbeyville,  this  man  was  spoken 
of  with  some  awe  as  Capting  Saunderson;  but  among  his 
confreres  of  the  river  he  was  more  generally  known  as"Win'- 
bag."  Two  years  ago  Abbeyville  had  never  heard  of  him; 
then  came  a  rumour  which  stated  definitely  that  a  "shadda" 
hung  over  him.  But  whether  the  shadow  was  fluctuating  or 
permanent,  visionary  or  substantial,  none  of  his  friends  were 
decided.  They  appreciated  the  fact  that  the  newcomer  was 
a  strong  man,  a  prosperous  skipper  who  spoke  the  language 
of  the  Thames  and  had  saved  "a  tidy  bit  of  money";  for  those 
were  points  in  his  favour  which  any  self-respecting  community 
may  be  expected  to  accept  on  sight.  Saunderson  moved  com- 
fortably in  the  knowledge. 

Night  had  fallen  when  he  returned  to  the  deck — a  quiet 
night,  dark,  hazy,  profoundly  somnolent.  The  schooner's 
lamp,  hanging  on  the  foremost  swifter,  shed  a  halo  of  blurred 
light  across  planks  which  were  wet  and  black  with  dew.  All 
around  her,  eyes  blinked,  winked,  revolved — racing  one  against 
the  other  and  shouting  of  the  dangers  they  surveyed.  Far  in 
the  northeast  a  flicker  ran  down  the  heavens;  it  appeared 
like  a  crooked  wire,  fused  in  another  world. 

Saunderson  halted  on  the  edge  of  the  companion-way,  look- 
ing into  the  darkness.  A  minute  circular  glow  of  red  fire, 
standing  beside  him,  showed  the  outline  of  a  man's  face,  the 
tip  of  his  nose  and  the  marking  of  his  brows.  The  skipper 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  GAT  7 

approached,  grumbling.  "In  another  hour,"  he  said,  "it'll 
be  thick  as  peas-pudden  and  twice  as  nasty — a  day  late,  too!" 

The  circular  patch  moved  in  the  darkness,  and  a  voice  said 
with  a  trill:  "Arrah!  give  ut  a  rest.  In  another  hour  the 
moon  will  be  up  an'  scoffin'  ut." 

"Pish!"  said  the  skipper. 

The  voice  replied  very  confidently:  "I  know  ut.  You 
wait."  And  again  the  patch  glowed. 

"D'you  lease  this  strip  of  sea,  mate?"  Saunderson  ques- 
tioned with  a  tinge  of  sarcasm.  "For  if  so,  I'd  thank  you  for 
a  draught  of  air.  Enough  to  shove  the  old  Bluebell  out  of 
the  traffic  for  a  start." 

Micky  Doolan,  the  mate,  sucked  placidly.  "There'll  be 
enough  wind  prisintly,"  he  announced,  "sthill,  if  I  had  been 
masther,  we  would  have  been  anchored  at  the  head  of  the 
Deeps  an'  not  here." 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  av  things  there's  no  accountin'  for." 

"So?"  said  Saunderson,  in  a  smaller  voice,  "an'  what's 
that  when  you've  done  wiv  it?" 

"The  curse  av  the  Gat." 

"Ah!"  and  again  in  more  resolute  tones:  "I  never  heard 
of  it." 

The  mate  withdrew  his  pipe  and  waved  it  solemnly. 
"Wance,"  he  said,  "I  laid  here  before — an'  now,  if  you  ask 
me,  I'd  give  me  soul-case  to  be  out  av  ut."  He  resumed 
smoking  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  knows  of  what  he  speaks, 
and  lay  back  on  the  skylight. 

Saunderson  threw  a  quick  glance  over  his  shoulder  and 
strolling  to  the  rail  stood  counting  the  leaping  signals.  Out 
of  nothingness  they  sprang,  into  nothingness  they  retired; 
like  men  who  fight  and  struggle  for  eminence,  so  they  whirled 


8  THE  ISSUE 

from  space,  threw  their  lights,  faded  and  died.  He  watched 
them  without  intention  and  found  himself  rivetted.  They 
mocked  at  his  bearing  and  discovered  something  abject  in  his 
questionings — "The  lives  of  men — the  lives?  Chks!  they 
came  from  nothing,  into  nothingness  they  sank."  There  was 
no  doubt — none.  He  swore  it. 

Facing  the  darkness  and  in  the  hush  of  that  lonely  anchorage, 
with  the  tremor  of  a  new  thought,  monstrous  and  ineradicable, 
he  found  those  jerked  flashes  annoying.  He  turned  to  recross 
the  deck  and  a  sudden  flicker  sizzled  down  the  heavens.  He 
waited  for  the  thunder,  and  a  faint  growl  broke  out  as  he  re- 
sumed his  seat  by  the  mate.  "  They're  playin'  bowls  up  there !" 
he  cried.  "You're  right  about  the  wind." 

"If  it  would  come  widout  any  more  parleyin',  glory  be! 
Amin!"  the  voice  trilled. 

Saunderson  struck  a  match  and  applied  it  to  his  pipe,  ques- 
tioning with  a  ghost  of  merriment,  "Why,  what's  adrift  wiv  the 
place  ?  " 

"Don't  I  tell  ye?  Sorr,  there's  iv'rythin'  against  ut — 
iv'rythin'!  How  do  I  know?  Glory  be!  didn't  I  lie  here 
in  the  Flyin*  Cloud  an'  see?  Tom  Mace  wass  skipper;  Dick, 
Bunny,  Walt  Thompson,  an'  Geordie  wass  the  crew.  Whhat's 
come  av  them  all?  Whhat's  come  av  the  Flyin'  Cloud? 
Where's  a  livin*  soul  out  av  all  hands — bar  me?" 

For  some  minutes  silence  ensued.  The  mate  puffed  lazily 
at  his  pipe,  nursing  his  knee  with  clasped  hands. 

"You've  always  got  some  da wg 'eared  yarn  on  the  stocks," 
the  skipper  grumbled  at  length;  "what  if  they  are  all  gone 
under?  They  aren't  the  first,  are  they?" 

"No;  but  here  there  was  a  cause.     I'm  tellin'  you,  moind." 

Again  there  was  a  small  interval.  Micky  Doolan  somewhat 
ostentatiously  refilled  his  pipe;  Saunderson  seemed  content 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  GAT  9 

to  ponder  on  the  notion  which  had  leaped  into  being  at  his 
words.  Then  the  Irishman's  voice  came  out  of  the  stillness 
saying  sturdily:  "Whhat  comes  av  the  spirut  av  a  man  whin 
the  breath's  gone  out  av  him  ?" 

"It  don't  run  to  spirits  in  general,  Micky — we  mostly  take 
it  out  in  beer,"  the  skipper  returned  with  a  dull  laugh. 

The  mate  took  no  heed. 

"D'ye  think,"  he  resumed,  "that  if  a  man  kills  his  wife  or 
thurns  her  into  the  streets,  her  ghost  don't  walk  an'  fret  him?" 

Saunderson  twisted  uneasily  and  glanced  over  his  shoulder 
as  a  vivid  flash  lighted  the  northern  heavens,  "If  I  thought 
that,"  he  growled  out,  "I'd  cut  me  throat  an'  a  done  wivit." 

"Whhat  for  would  ye  do  that?    Played  out  alridy?" 

A  dangerous  gleam  whipped  into  Saunderson's  eyes  as  the 
distant  thunder  rolled  an  accompaniment  to  his  speech. 
"You're  right,  Micky,"  came  the  answer,  moodily  reverting 
to  the  former  thesis,  "but  if  I  were  in  the  case  you  speak  of 
I'd  see  my  bread  buttered  thick  for  the  time  that's  left.  Gawd! 
a  man  would  be  a  fool  to  go  before  his  time — or  while  there's 
honey  in  the  pot." 

"Honey  in  the  pot?"  the  mate  questioned  puffing  at  a  pipe 
which  glowed. 

"The  world's  a  honey  pot,  my  son,  wiv  all  the  sweets — that's 
the  women — lyin'  in  the  middle.  The  men  are  the  flies,  an' 
they  come  buzzin'  around  lookin'  after  the  sweets.  But  it's 
only  the  strong  that  get  a  look  in.  The  weakly  ones  die  and 
the  strong  stumble  over  their  bodies  to  get  at  the  sweets,  an' 
the  sweets  like  them  best." 

"They  say  you've  had  your  share  av  the  shwates  alridy," 
Micky  flashed  in  merriment. 

"Who  in  flames  says  that?" 

"Asy,  Skip — how  do  I  know  who  says  ut — first,  annyway?" 


io  THE  ISSUE 

"If  I  had  him  here  I'd  twist  the  damned  tongue  out  av 
him." 

The  mate  withdrew  his  pipe  and  watched  the  skipper  agape. 
Saunderson  noting  the  look  pulled  himself  together  with  a 
swift  turn.  "Let  it  slide,"  he  growled,  "an'  if  you  do  tumble 
across  anyone  wiv  too  much  slack  at  the  back  of  his  tongue, 
let  him  know  what  I  said — and,"  he  halted  shuffling  mentally 
for  a  new  subject,  "an*  get  on  wiv  your  Flyin'  Cloud  yarn. 
I  knew  Tom  Mace  years  agone." 

There  was  a  lengthy  pause  during  which  Micky  Doolan 
sucked  somewhat  morosely  at  his  pipe  and  Saunderson,  sitting 
back  on  the  scuttle,  let  his  thoughts  fall  again  on  the  fancies 
the  mate's  words  had  trailed  before  him.  Haunted!  Chks! 
Well — and  if  it  came?  He  continued  brooding  over  this  until 
Doolan  recalled  him  to  the  present. 

"Ut  wass  just  such  a  noight  as  this,"  he  said,  "un*  we're 
not  a  mile  off  where  the  Flyiri1  Cloud  came  undher  the  curse — 
a  mile?  Whisht!  less  be  half . 

"Two  years  ago,  ut  wass,  come  Chrissmus,  an'  I'm  sthandin' 
at  the  wheel  steerin'  for  the  Nore  wid  scarce  enough  wind  to 
kape  the  rags  aslape.  The  auld  man  comes  up  from  below  an' 
looks  about.  'Micky,'  he  says,  'dhown  kellick  an'  set  a  watch. 
We're  makin'  no  headway;  we  moight  as  well  be  to  roost.' 
So  I  dhowned  kellick,  gave  her  enough  chain  an'  thurned  in. 
Two  o'clock  come  along  an'  I  woke  from  me  slape  wid  the 
feelin'  av  one  disgraced.  I  jumped  up  quick  an'  ran  out  to 
see  the  watch. 

"The  decks  are  white  wid  a  thin  rime  av  frost,  the  moon's 
up,  glintin'  yellow  an'  sheeny  through  the  riggin';  the  san's 
are  sthill  as  a  dead  man's  heart.  But  the  bhoy,  who's  on 
watch,  makes  no  answer  to  me  call. 

"'Micky,  me  son,'  sez  I  to  mesilf,  'whhat's  wrong  wid  the 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  GAT  n 

noight?  Ye're  nearer  the  san's  than  whin  ye  wint  below. 
Mother  av  God!  the  schooner's  adrift.' 

"I  slipped  forid  in  the  twinklin'  av  an  oye  an'  came  to  the 
chain  to  give  her  more.  But  the  chain's  gone  from  the  wind- 
lass an'  we're  grindin'  on  the  edge  av  the  san's  before  I  could 
belave  me  soight." 

Saunderson  glanced  up,  holding  out  his  hand.  "Any  boat 
hangin'  aft  when  you  come  to,  Micky  ? " 

"There  wass;  but  now  ut's  gone." 

"Then  the  boy's  been  play  in'  hanky-panky,  an*  has  done  a 
bolt." 

"Maybe  that's  so,  maybe  ut's  not.  I'm  not  sayin'.  I'm 
just  tellin'  you  the  square  truth,  an'  I  say  that  in  the  mornin', 
whin  we  come  up  the  Deeps,  the  boat's  lyin'  on  the  tail  av  the 
san's  an'  Geordie's  lyin'  besoide  her — dead  as  a  five-finger."* 

Saunderson  made  no  sign.  He  continued  watching  the 
flickering  gleams  springing  now  more  generously  far  in  the 
northeast.  At  length  he  spoke,  banteringly,  with  the  ghost 
of  stilled  laughter  lurking  in  his  voice.  "An'  you  think  that 
happened  because  you're  lyin'  behind  the  Long  Sands?"  he 
questioned. 

"Ut  happened — put  ut  how  you  will — because  the  Flyin? 
Cloud's  come  under  the  curse." 

Saunderson  made  a  gesture  of  dissent,  but  no  words  fell, 
and  the  mate  resumed  as  though  he  had  received  encourage- 
ment. "How  do  I  know?"  he  cried.  "Why  shouldn't  I 
whin  I  see  whhat  followed?  Can  a  man  see  his  mates  all 
go  from  before  his  eyes  an'  not  belave?  Whisht!  Listen 
while  I  tell  yez: 

"The  Flyiri*  Cloud  came  in  an'  hauled  'longsoide  the  der- 
ruck  to  discharge.  On  the  second  day,  Walt  Tompson'3 

*Starfish. 


12  THE  ISSUE 

sittin'  on  the  rail  doin'  a  bit  av  tallyin'  while  I  get  me  break- 
fast. He  marks  dhown  maybe  a  dozen  sthrokes,  thin  the  gin- 
chain  broke  an'  he's  lyin'  undher  an  irron  bucket  loaded  wid 
half  a  ton  av  diammints,*  an'  whin  he's  dug  out  we  see  that 
Walt  Tompson  had  followed  in  the  way  of  Geordie. 

"Two  voyages  later,  we're  goin'  acrass  the  Wash,  bound 
for  the  Humber.  Ut's  a  cowld  noight  an'  half  a  gale  av 
wind's  a  singin'  hi  me  ears  whin  I  relave  the  auld  man  at 
twelve  o'clock.  'Micky,'  he  sez,  'we've  just  clewed  up  the 
tops'l  an'  Bunny's  up  makin'  ut  fast.  Keep  her  good  an'  full 
till  he's  dhown.' 

"An'  I  kept  her  good  an'  full  an'  round  as  a  woman's  breast 
till  I  heard  a  noise  forid  loike  the  dumpin'  av  a  sack  av  spuds. 
'Holy  sailor!'  sez  I,  'whhat  are  ye  shlingin'  dhown  on  top  av 
us?  Go  asy,  ye  slummer — you'll  be  hurtin'  somewan.'  But 
there  wass  no  answer,  only  a  stidy  flap,  flap,  flap  av  the  rags 
blatterin'  aloft.  So  I  ran  forid  to  take  a  look — an'  Bunny's 
lyin'  spread  out  loike  a  shlaughter-house  sheep,  dead  as 
muttin'." 

Again  Saunderson  rose  from  his  seat  and  for  a  while  stood 
watching  the  distant  clouds.  He  faced  them  resolutely,  grip- 
ping at  the  rail,  and  laughed.  A  peal  of  thunder  rolled  over 
the  horizon  far  off,  very  mournful,  like  the  roar  of  a  distant 
cannonade.  The  laugh  died  as  he  returned  to  the  skylight. 
Micky  Doolan  sat  thoughtfully  sucking  his  pipe. 

"That  voyage  began  bad,  but  ut  ended  worse,"  he  announced 
gravely.  "We  loaded  dhown  wid  harrdsf  an'  came  out  in  the 
teeth  av  a  gale  av  wind.  The  skipper's  goin'  to  make  a  smart 
run.  Ut's  the  auld  woman's  birthday  and  Tom  Mace  manes 
to  spend  ut  to  home.  He  does  spend  ut  to  home,  sure  as  guns. 

"Sat'day  mornin'  put  us  dhown  aff  the  Long-s'nd  Light- 

*Coal.     j-Yorkshire  hards,  a  quality  of  coal. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  GAT  13 

ship,  an'  as  we  thurned  scootin'  up  the  Deeps,  the  wind  hauled 
more  west  till  prisintly  we're  jammed  in  the  teeth  av  ut,  goin' 
full  an'  by.*  At  noon  there's  half  a  gale  an'  we've  lost  mains'l, 
jib  an'  stays'l.  For  the  rest  we've  retched  no  further  than  the 
Oaze.  Tom  Mace  comes  an'  sthands  besoide  me  at  the  wheel. 

"'Micky,'  he  sez,  'we're  doin'  nothin'  undher  these  on- 
mintionable  rags.  Let  us  have  her  an'  git  ready  the  mud- 
hook.'  So  I  let  go  an'  wint  forid.  Half  an  hour  later  we  are 
lyin'  to  anchor.  Two  hours  more  an'  we've  parted  ouir  cable 
an'  ut's  blowin'  a  shmokin'  gale  straight  dhown  the  river 
funnel.  Be  three  o'clock  the  Flyin'  Cloud's  lyin'  in  the  shpume 
that's  roarin'  across  Gillman,f  an'  Tom  Mace  an'  the  rest  av 
us  are  lashed  in  the  riggin'  waitin'  for  the  end  av  thin's. 

"But  it  wasn't  to  be  there;  oh,  no.  For  out  av  the  smother 
comes  the  Sthorm  Cock,  creepin'  seaward  an'  lookin'  fer 
throuble.  They  spot  us,  pick  us  aff  an'  run  us  up  to  the 
Haven.ijl  But  the  Flyin'  Cloud,  ye'll  moind,  wass  a  mere 
scatherin'  av  planks  an'  spars  an'  ribs  av  timber,  lyin'  fast  on 
the  edge  av  Gillman.  All  the  rest  is  shakin's." 

The  mate  puffed  at  his  pipe  and  leaned  back  comfortably 
reminiscent.  A  swell  sent  down  by  a  passing  steamer  tumbled 
the  sea  crashing  on  the  sands  and  set  the  Bluebell  rolling. 
Far  in  the  darkness  the  sails  whanged;  a  loose  capstan  bar 
clattered  noisily  in  the  scuppers.  Saunderson  leaped  from 
his  seat  and  stood  a  moment  pointing,  like  a  hound  on  scent, 
then,  relighting  his  pipe,  he  leaned  truculently  against  the 
skylight:  "  Lumme, "  he  asserted,  "I'd  almost  forgot  we're  here." 

Micky  Doolan  cast  up  his  eyes  with  sparrow-like  vivacity 
and  replied :  "  Ut  wass  just  that  same  forgettin',"  he  announced, 
"that  brought  Tom  Mace  undher  the  curse.  'Ut's  three  miles 
from  the  Haven  to  Benfleet  over  a  lonely  road,  an'  the  skipper 

*i.  e.,  steering  by  the  wind.     -j-A  sand  bank.     ^Thames  Haven. 


i4  THE  ISSUE 

wass  not  in  the  mood  for  trampin'.  'Ut':;  easier,'  he  sez,  'to 
go  by  river.'  So  he,  wid  Dick,  goes  up  an5  borrows  a  boat  an' 
makes  all  ready  to  hook  a  stheamer  that's  comin'  up  Reach. 
'Don't  do  ut,  Tom,'  sez  I,  'ut's  death.'  'Go  to  blazes,  Micky,' 
sez  he;  'I'm  to  keep  me  promise  wid  the  auld  woman.'  An* 
wid  that  they  shove  aff  an'  row  out  av  the  Haven. 

"Ut's  a  Scotchman  that's  comin'  tearin'  up  sthrame.  There's 
enough  say  to  tow  anny  boat  undher;  but  Tom  Mace  an' 
Dick  have  said  they'll  do  ut.  So  they  row  out  fast  to  meet  her. 
Prisintly  Dick  takes  both  oars  an'  we  see  Tom  standin'  to 
clear  his  line. 

"Mother  av  God!  annywan  could  have  seen  how  'twould 
be — as  well  thry  to  hitch  the  Chatham  express — as  well — 
just.  Ut's  dusk,  ye'll  moind,  an'  the  Scotchman's  comin' 
along  wid  the  squirm  av  a  torpedo  boat  dancin'  up  her  sthem. 
In  a  minute  she's  up  wid  them — foamin'  to  the  eyes.  Tom 
Mace  is  sthandin'  hi  the  bows  ready  wid  his  hook.  Dick  is 
thurnin'  the  boat  toward  her.  That's  all  we  see  before  the 
stheamer  passes. 

"'He  can't  do  ut,'  sez  a  chap  be  me  soide,  'ut's  foolishness.' 

"'But  he  has  done  ut,'  sez  I,  for  at  that  minute  the  boat 
swims  aft  an'  we  can  see  Tom  payin'  out  the  line  quick  as 
light — an'  thin — an'  thin!  Arroo!  whhat's  happened?  The 
end,  Captin — the  end. 

"  Av  a  sudden  the  boat  jerks  ahead  wid  a  curl  av  foam  about 
her.  Dick  shoots  over  the  stern,  an'  Tom  Mace  loies  dhown 
loike  a  sick  snake  in  the  bows.  He's  twistin' — that's  plain. 
A  wave  av  spray  washes  acrass  them.  They  go  out  an'  back, 
loike  a  fish  at  the  end  av  a  line,  an'  in  that  rush  Tom  Mace 
follows  in  the  path  av  the  rest,  an'  Dick  has  gone  to  keep  him 
company." 

The  mate  fell  back  on  the  skylight  and  Saunderson  rose. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  GAT  15 

He  walked  slowly  up  and  down  the  deck,  a  dead  pipe  between 
his  lips.  He  had  no  thought  of  relighting  it.  He  lounged  over 
the  rail  and  leaning  on  his  elbow  stole  a  glance  at  his  compan- 
ion. He  spoke  after  a  while  with  a  disdainful  expression: 
"  Stow  it,  Micky,  you  an' your  curse.  Lumme!  turn  over  the 
page  an'  give  us  the  sequel  now  we're  in  the  humour." 

The  mate  eyed  him  with  a  quizzical  glance.  "  That,  maybe, 
is  on  the  road  to  meet  ye,  Captin,"  he  returned,  "but  loike 
Tom  Mace,  ye  won't  know  ut  till  ut's  here." 

"Chks!"  said  Saunderson  with  an  oath.  "Give  it  a  rest 
an'  come  below  for  a  taste  of  rum.  Lumme!  you  want  bal- 
last, mate — that's  what  you  want." 

The  skipper  was  in  rollicking  spirits.  Apparently,  too,  he 
was  quite  unconcerned,  when,  towards  one  o'clock,  a  vivid 
blaze  flashed  through  the  dim  cabin.  Both  men  leaped  to 
their  feet.  Each  had  taken  more  than  a  taste  of  rum  in  the 
heat  of  discussion,  and  their  heads  were  none  the  clearer  for 
the  indulgence. 

They  tumbled  up  the  campanion  to  the  accompaniment  of 
an  ear-splitting  crash  as  the  thunder  rolled  to  the  zenith.  The 
schooner  trembled  like  a  train  suddenly  checked  by  the  vacuum 
brake;  her  cable  jingled  in  the  hawse-pipe.  Darkness 
shrouded  her.  She  lay  like  a  wounded  gull,  with  drooping 
head  and  shivering  wings,  watching  the  approach  of  her  enemy 
disconsolately  from  the  lap  of  the  swell.  The  sails  bellied  and 
clanged  alternately.  From  somewhere  the  lightning  played 
without  pause,  darting  about,  twisting,  snapping,  leaping. 
The  sea  caught  the  gleams.  It  mirrored  them  incessantly, 
added  to  them,  spread  them  out  to  examine.  It  was  as  though 
the  black  surface,  so  still  and  profoundly  impassive,  were  a 
giant  forge  whereon  some  Titan  worked  with  his  bellows. 

Calm,  dark  and  very  sombre  it  appeared  as  they  attuned 


i6  THE  ISSUE 

their  eyes  to  see;  then  a  sudden  and  angry  spirit  of  rain  rushed 
upon  them  and  Saunderson  faced  about. 

"Call  the  chaps  out,  Micky.  Look  slippy,  my  son,"  he 
cried.  "Aft  wiv  'em!  Get  these  flamin'  kites  handed."* 

He  moved  across  the  deck,  masterful,  vigilant,  staring  into 
the  void  and  snapping  orders. 

The  squall  broke.  It  sprang  upon  them  with  a  deluge, 
stinging  their  faces,  lashing  their  hands  as  with  flicks  of  a 
driver's  whip.  It  caught  the  half-set  canvas  and  the  sails 
roared  out  in  a  whanging  chorus.  Someone  shouted,  "Let 
all  stand!"  and  the  men  drew  back  under  the  bulwarks.  But 
Saunderson  discovered  their  retreat  and  came  forward.  He 
took  one  by  the  ear  and  led  him  to  the  ropes.  "Pull!"  he 
admonished,  "snug  'em  up!" 

The  man  accepted  his  fate  without  speech. 

For  half  an  hour  the  meagre  crew  fought  and  swore  in  the 
turmoil.  They  were  sodden.  They  worked  without  heart. 
They  knew  that  their  efforts  were  futile,  absurd,  that  they 
accomplished  nothing — still,  under  Saunderson's  eye,  they 
pulled,  waiting  for  the  squall  to  fail.  It  died  as  it  rose,  sud- 
denly, and  the  Bluebell  was  newly  lighted.  Little  spirit  fires 
crept  out  to  mock  the  fading  wind.  They  perched  eerily  on 
masts  and  yard-arms.  They  slithered  in  balls  of  flame  up 
and  down  the  stays  and  woodwork  mimicking  the  lightning-, 
mimicking  the  flash  and  revolution  of  those  lights  out  there  in 
the  mirk — but  the  men  took  no  heed.  They  continued  pull- 
ing with  the  dogged  persistency  of  a  will  not  theirs  until  Saun- 
derson moved  to  stay  them.  He  approached  the  mate  with 
bent  head,  staring  at  the  flickering  lights,  shouting,  half  in 
anger:  "Get  aft,  ye  blithering  Irishman,  an'  take  the  wheel. 
Avast  hauling!  We're  adrift.  Make  sail." 

*Stow  the  sails. 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  GAT  17 

As  Doolan  hastened  to  obey,  his  voice  rose  with  new  orders: 
"Loose  the  brails.  Stays'l  halliards  there,  one  of  you!  Stop- 
pers off  the  mains'l,  boy.  Move  around!  Look  slippy!" 

The  crew  bustled  with  alacrity  under  his  eye;  but  in  the 
confusion  of  tangled  ropes,  rain  and  unutterable  darkness, 
only  small  progress  had  been  made  before  the  mate's  voice 
was  heard.  He  came  forward  at  a  run,  crying  out:  "No  use — 
no  use!  She's  aground!" 

Saunderson  gripped  him  by  the  arm.  "She's  where,  ye 
little  cockchafer  ?  "  he  growled. 

"On  the  san's.  No  man  will  move  her  this  side  av  tide 
toime — let  go  me  arm." 

He  spoke  in  the  confident  tones  of  one  who  has  prophesied 
correctly  and  now  awaits  further  events  in  peace.  He  watched 
the  skipper  as  he  moved  aft;  saw  him  try  the  wheel ;  remarked 
on  the  fact  that  the  rudder  was  jammed  hard  on  the  sands; 
watched  as  he  came  back  to  the  mainmast  and  halted,  ostensibly 
to  give  an  order  to  the  crew.  But  Saunderson  only  fumbled 
with  the  buttons  of  his  coat,  staring  into  space. 

The  squall  hummed  faintly,  far  on  the  horizon. 

Three  hours  later  the  skipper  sat  alone  on  deck  noting  the 
lights  which  leaped  and  blinked  on  a  silvered  river.  The 
moon  was  up.  High  water  past.  The  Gat  shimmered  at  his 
elbow.  A  curious  sheen  hung  over  all,  misty,  white,  indefinite. 
The  Bluebell  no  longer  trembled  on  the  edge  of  the  sands,  she 
lay  where  they  had  wharped  her,  comfortably  afloat  and 
swinging  slowly  to  the  ebb;  tide-bound,  wind-bound — motion- 
less amidst  the  wide  expanse. 

Saunderson  watched  her.  He  marked  the  river  running  in 
streaks,  oily,  sluggish,  without  a  curl  of  foam;  he  saw  the 
lights  blinking,  leaping  from  grave  to  gay  and  heard  again 
those  suggestions  he  found  so  appalling  but  could  not  shake 


i8  THE  ISSUE 

off.  He  admitted  that  they  were  absurd;  but  the  notion  had 
fastened  upon  him,  his  brain  had  grappled  with  it  and  he 
desired  above  all  things  the  knowledge  of  men  who  knew ;  who 
could  judge,  who,  unlike  the  mate,  could  reason  this  matter  to 
a  finality.  He  told  himself  there  was  something  in  it  and 
immediately  shook  his  head,  doggedly  shouting  that  it  was 
rot.  He  sat  back,  tried  to  smoke,  thought  of  sleep,  thought 
of  the  face  of  a  fair  girl  at  home,  in  Abbeyville,  but  could  not 
give  her  the  attention  she  deserved.  He  banged  the  rail  with 
his  clenched  fist. 

The  crew  slept.  Micky  Doolan  slept.  But  Saunderson 
did  not  sleep — he  watched. 

And  as  he  sat  there  brooding,  a  steamer  crawled  out  of  the 
mists  and,  passing  like  a  phantom,  vanished  in  the  sheen  of 
the  moon.  The  thud  of  her  propeller  droned  in  his  ears.  He 
looked  round,  but  the  vessel  was  gone.  He  strove  to  pierce 
the  illusive  light,  seeking  her  shape,  and  found  himself  listen- 
ing to  a  cry,  a  cry  so  faint  as  to  be  almost  soundless. 

He  sprang  to  the  side,  intent,  alert,  and  again  it  rang  out — 
a  commonplace  hail;  a  thing  the  river  is  used  to.  Some  one 
called  for  assistance.  Saunderson,  standing  gripping  hands 
with  fear,  scarcely  hesitated.  He  told  himself  that  some  one 
was  drowning  and  started  aft  at  speed. 

"A  man  overboard!  Chaps  to  the  boat!"  he  cried. 
"Lively's  the  word!" 

The  crew  slept  on  till  Micky  Doolan  roused  them;  then 
they,  too,  crept  on  deck.  But  Saunderson  had  made  no 
pause.  Undeterred  by  their  absence  he  clambered  into  the 
boat  and  sculled  away  in  the  track  of  that  mist-hidden  steamer. 
The  men  waited. 

They  were  still  on  deck  and  the  mate  smoking  at  the  head 
of  the  companion  when  the  skipper  returned.  He  climbed 


THE  LEGEND  OF  THE  GAT  19 

the  rail,  made  fast  the  boat  and  faced  the  Gat  in  silence.  The 
mate  crossed  to  meet  him. 

"Did  ye  get  a  soight  av  him?"  he  questioned.  Saunderson 
sprang  round.  He  stood  chewing  the  cud  of  stumbling  sen- 
tences; but  he  made  no  answer. 

"Thin  he's  dhrowned?"    said  the  mate. 

"Drowned? — Gawd  knows." 

"But  ye  saw  him,  Captin?" 

"I  saw— Gawd!  what's  that?" 

He  twisted  on  his  heel.  Nothing  appeared — only  the  Gat 
was  there;  the  Gat  and  the  sheen  and  a  group  of  staring 
men.  He  hastened  into  the  cabin. 

An  hour  later  the  mate  followed.  Saunderson  was  sitting 
at  the  table  sunk  in  thought.  At  his  side  was  a  pannikin  of 
rum  from  which  he  drank  at  intervals.  He  took  no  notice  of 
Doolan's  entrance,  but  he  watched  him,  saw  him  light  his  pipe, 
pull  his  cap  down  and  turn  in. 

Towards  daylight  Saunderson's  deep  voice  sounded  and 
the  mate  awoke.  The  skipper  was  leaning  forward  with  a 
curious  gleam  in  his  sloe-black  eyes.  He  caught  the  mate's 
glance  and  his  face  twisted  into  a  leer. 

"Ya-as,  Micky,"  he  cried,  "maybe  you're  right;  but  I  never 
got  a-nigh  him.  Who  says  I  didn't  try?  Lies — all  lies  an' 
gibberish.  Who  Pcould  when  there's — You're  right!  The 
honey-pots  will  be  my  mark  for  a  while " 

He  had  fallen  into  the  river  idiom — the  river  which  swirled 
muddily  out  there,  yellow  in  the  light  of  the  rising  sun. 


CHAPTER  II 

SUSIE  WATCHES  A  PROCESSION 

A  BBEYVILLE  lay  adrowse  at  the  edge  of  the  Thames. 
•LX.  It  stared  at  the  river  through  a  shimmering  heat 
wave,  marking  the  growing  flood,  the  passing  ships,  the 
tugs,  the  barges,  liners  and  tramps;  it  saw  that  they  all 
moved  onward,  stole  round  the  deep-set  bay,  passed  the  train- 
ing ships,  the  buoys,  the  long-armed  jetties  and  disappeared 
in  a  golden  blur  at  the  head  of  the  reach — it  knew  that  London 
awaited  them,  that  London  would  presently  absorb  them. 

AbbeyviUe  loungers  especially  noted  the  coming  of  high 
tide.  For  hours  a  group  of  men  had  waited,  patiently  con- 
suming tobacco  at  the  verge  of  the  deep  water  pier.  Their 
eyes  were  generally  turned  seaward.  They  said  to  each  other, 
that  unless  the  Conservancy  hurried  its  fingers  the  schooner 
would  not  fetch  the  blocks.  They  bemoaned  the  fact  that 
they  had  prepared  them  a  tide  too  soon,  sweating  uselessly 
in  a  broiling  sun;  then  leaning  on  spars  and  anchors,  against 
spare  buoys,  timber  ends  and  the  tangled  debris  of  a  ship-yard, 
watched  the  smoke  floating  in  long  gray  streams  from  tall  gray 
chimneys  across  the  water;  watched  the  slim  finger  of  land 
at  the  eastern  boundary  of  the  bay,  watched  the  tug  lying  idle 
close  at  hand  with  the  steam  melting  softly  into  the  clear,  hot 
air.  They  seemed  to  find  the  occupation  soothing. 

Behind  them  AbbeyviUe  basked  in  a  noon-day  sun.,  The 
people  were  hot  and  languid.  Flies  buzzed  persistently  in  a 
halo  about  the  head  of  an  old  horse  trying  to  sleep  on  three 


SUSIE  WATCHES  A  PROCESSION  21 

legs  outside  the  High  Street  stores;  and  crawled  like  nervously 
excitable  currants  inside  the  grocer's  window,  sampling  the 
sugar.  The  street  was  thirsty,  full  of  dust;  the  men  lounging 
near  the  smithy  were  thirsty  also.  The  Abbeyville  Urban  Board 
had  essayed  to  slake  the  streets;  the  Southern  Trader  had 
done  something  towards  slaking  the  men.  They  spoke  to- 
gether in  many  intonations,  relating,  in  a  strange  dialect, 
dreary  stories  of  questionable  taste,  until  one  standing  on  the 
verge  of  the  wharf  cried  out: 

"That's  'er." 

Another  removed  his  pipe,  stared  into  the  scintillating  river- 
scape  and  said,  "If  it  ain't — lumme!" 

His  companions  seemed  to  consider  that  this  settled  the 
matter.  They  moved  forward  in  a  group  and  stood  watching 
until  a  noise  grew  out  of  the  stillness,  and  they  saw  that  the 
tug  had  cast  off  and  had  commenced  to  slap  the  river  with  her 
paddles.  She  crept  over  the  still  water  and  made  for  the 
beacon  on  Deadman's  Point — a  long  and  lean  finger  of  land 
jutting  out  from  the  shore  at  the  end  of  the  bay.  A  proces- 
sion stole  slowly  up  river  here.  It  consisted  of  a  tug  boat  with 
twin  black  funnels  towing  two  lopsided  lighters  and  between 
them  the  angled  masts  of  a  schooner.  At  the  main  was  a 
green  flag  carrying  the  symbol  "Wreck"  in  white  letters. 

Some  one  said,  "It's  Win'bag — that's  a  moral,"  and  a 
thinner  voice  falsettoed,  "Win'bag — 'ooze  'ee?" 

An  old  graybeard  spat  thoughtfully  over  the  wharf  side  and 
remarked  with  huge  disdain,  "'Er  skipper";  then  added  as  if 
in  justification  of  his  tone,  "W'ere's  yer  'ead?" 

The  falsetto  said,  "On  me  shoulders,  a  course."  But  the 
graybeard  took  exception  to  the  description.  He  replied  very 
assertively,  "Garn!  it's  a  cabbage.  Go  'ome  an'  get  it  biled 
fer  dinner."  He  turned  to  face  the  procession,  muttering: 


22  THE  ISSUE 

"Them  uz  don't  know  Win'bag,  don't  know  a  man  uz  they 
should  know.  Them  uz  'as  lived  a  year  in  Abbeywill  an'  don't 
know  Win'bag,  might  uz  well  a  bin  dead."  Again  he  resumed 
his  pipe  and  contemplative  attitude.  No  one  resented  his 
remarks. 

The  twin-funnelled  tug  snorted  laboriously  round  the  point, 
breathing  deep  blobs  of  smoky  breath:  she  lashed  the  water 
into  a  mill  race  and  it  fell  white,  crammed  with  bubbles,  in  the 
way  of  the  lopsided  trio,  and  the  trio  trod  them  underfoot. 
The  tug  which  had  moved  from  the  buoy  approached  and 
stood  on  beside  the  wreck  flag.  But  she  did  not  assist,  she 
watched;  for  no  outsider  must  interfere  with  a  Conservancy 
procession  when  the  green  flag  is  hoisted,  lest  there  be  war  in 
that  part  of  Trinity  Square  which  loves  leisurely  methods. 

The  men  on  the  deep  water  pier  observed  this  manoeuvre 
and  commented  on  the  Petrd's  sagacity.  "It's  one  for  Elliott; 
there's  no  two  ways  abaht  that,"  said  the  spokesman. 

"Win'bag  won't  like  Elliott  bein'  sent  to  pluck  'im  in," 
another  averred;  "'tain't  likely." 

"An*  the  gel  watchin'  the  pair  of  'em  from  the  bottom  of  'er 
garding.  It's  not  wot  you  might  call  a  bean-feast  fer  Win'bag." 

"It  means  'is  walkin'  ticket — that's  wot  it  means/'  added 
a  lean  shipwright  with  a  long  and  silky  moustache.  "It's 
rough  on  Win'bag — bloomin*  rough." 

The  graybeard  sage  withdrew  his  pipe  and  looked  about 
him.  "Fat  lot  Win'bag  cares  for  the  flourishin*  sack,"  he 
announced.  "Win'bag's  got  money,  'ee  'as — ull  be  leader 
o'  the  Rivermen's  Union  yet,  'ee  will.  A  good  chap.  'Ard 
uz  nails.  Strong.  Knows  a  thing  or  two.  'Ear  'ini  talk — 
it  licks." 

As  no  one  ventured  to  contradict  this  statement  he  pro- 
ceeded to  drive  it  home.  "  'Ear  'im  afore  you  judge  'im.  I 


SUSIE  WATCHES  A  PROCESSION  23 

say  uz  'ee'll  lead.  Mark  that."  He  subsided  into  the  ab- 
stract gaze  of  a  man  asleep  with  his  eyes  open. 

The  blacksmith  approached  and  stood  with  his  mate  be- 
side the  group.  He  cried  out,  "Socks! "  Then  after  a  moment 
given  to  contemplation:  "Jock,  lad,  blow  oop  t'fire.  Ah'm 
lookin'  at  ma  fortune — ah'm  goin'  t'  be  busy."  No  one  noticed 
him.  All  were  intent  on  the  procession.  The  sun  drew 
figure-pictures  in  the  dust,  long,  clear-cut  lines  in  blue,  which 
the  wharf  was  not  wide  enough  to  finish. 

Farther  down  stream,  nearer  the  ambling  causeway  sloping 
to  cool  its  heels  in  the  river,  a  girl  stood  also  on  watch.  She 
wore  a  pink  gown,  a  straw  hat  with  a  trailing  black  feather, 
and  the  air  of  one  quietly  absorbed.  The  sun  revelled  about 
her,  lighting  the  curves,  darkening  the  shadows,  touching 
discriminately  the  golden  hair.  It  threw  its  arms  about  her 
and  she  leaned  over  the  garden  fence  undismayed,  intent  on 
the  Stormy  Petrel,  that  paddle-wheel  tug  which  ambled  so 
circumspectly  beside  the  procession.  The  girl  was  Susie 
Sutcliffe  and  she  might  have  stood  for  a  statue  of  Hebe. 

Behind  her,  at  the  end  of  the  small  garden,  was  her  home, 
a  house  built  of  weather-boards  and  red  brick,  nearly  hidden  in 
the  grip  of  a  giant  wistaria.  All  her  life  she  had  lived  there. 
As  a  child  she  had  played  about  the  rose  trees  and  syringa,  had 
tended  the  unordered  array  of  geraniums,  pansies,  fuchsias. 
She  loved  the  garden  and  was  happy  in  it.  That  she  might 
have  been  happier  all  men  were  prepared  to  admit.  But  she 
was  the  daughter  of  "poor"  George  Sutcliffe,  a  coasting  skip- 
per who  was  ruled  by  the  wife  he  had  taken  when  Susie's  mother 
died;  and  the  home  contained  echoes  of  a  voice  and  a  bicker- 
ing tongue  difficult  to  associate  with  the  air  of  refinement 
noticeable  in  the  girl;  difficult  to  consider  possible  in  sur- 
roundings so  calm  and  full  of  peace. 


24  THE  ISSUE 

At  the  edge  of  the  garden  the  river  gurgled  and  at  high  water 
it  lapped  greedily  at  the  fence  which  bordered  it.  Across 
the  way  was  a  lighthouse,  a  small  iron  construction  standing  on 
thin,  straddled  legs  sunk  in  the  mud.  It  blinked  all  night 
straight  into  Susie's  room.  Below  the  causeway  were  the 
training  ships,  the  yachts  and  the  wide,  sweeping  reach  ending 
in  the  finger  of  land  at  Deadman's  Point.  Before  her  was  the 
wide  and  mysterious  Thames,  crammed  with  ships,  crammed 
with  steamers,  full  of  life,  vast,  indefinite,  hazy,  dim. 

It  was  the  river  which  held  her.  As  a  child  she  had  learned 
to  love  its  voice  and  to  know  its  moods.  It  had  no  terrors  for 
her.  Her  father  lived  upon  it — came  home  in  the  old,  old 
Tantalus  carrying  her  presents  from  the  unpierced  distance 
beyond  the  point.  Jack  Elliott  lived  upon  it — he  who  now 
moved  with  his  tug  beside  the  procession  drawing  each  moment 
nearer;  who  commanded  the  Stormy  Petrel;  who  was  her 
lover. 

Together,  as  children,  these  two  had  played  upon  its  banks; 
together,  when  they  were  little  more,  they  had  paddled  about 
the  still  back  waters  and  come  triumphant  through  childish 
perils;  and  together,  in  the  more  troublesome  present,  they 
had  learned  to  love;  learned,  too,  that  Mrs.  Sutcliffe  favoured 
other  ties.  Now  they  stood  in  happy  ignorance  of  incidents 
neither  could  foresee. 

The  pictures  were  beautiful,  the  memories  transcendent 
always  until  that  strenuous  voice,  so  cold  and  sharp,  intervened; 
then  they  were  tinged  with  gray — like  the  river  under  wintry 
skies  whose  distance  is  always  mist.  Saunderson  caused  the 
grayness — Saunderson  and  the  voice. 

Susie  leaned  over  the  fence  staring  at  the  procession  now 
approaching  the  head  of  the  bight.  Slowly,  like  an  overturned 
beetle  with  wriggling  legs,  it  crept  behind  the  twin-funnelled 


SUSIE  WATCHES  A  PROCESSION  25 

tug,  came  near,  and  sent  three  spirts  of  steam  into  the  blue. 
The  men  lounging  on  the  deep  water  pier  accepted  this  hint 
and  some  of  them  started  down  the  narrow  strip  of  fore- 
shore. They  passed  beneath  the  garden,  growling  as  they 
went: 

"Might  a  knowed  it.  'Ee's  not  goin'  to  risk  'is  bloomin' 
tug  atwixt  the  buoys.  That's  wot  that  means.  An'  we've  bin 
sweatin'  to  ready  the  ways.  Lumme!  it's  thick." 

Some  one  else  said,  "I'd  give  suthin'  to  see  Dunscombe's 
face  w'en  'ee  knows."  And  the  old  graybeard,  passing  stolidly 
behind,  squelching  through  the  mud  in  boots  that  reached  his 
thighs,  took  up  his  parable. 

"Never  you  mind  the  Guv'nor's  face.  Win'bag  knows  'ow 
to  deal  \vi'  'im:  mark  my  words." 

They  squelched  onward,  straggled  past  the  pier-master's 
hutch,  climbed  the  causeway  and  became  specks  at  the  edge 
of  the  park;  specks  standing  on  the  sea-wall,  waving  arms, 
catching  ropes,  and  behaving  like  excitable  marionettes.  The 
tug  with  the  twin  funnels  snorted  viciously  onward;  swerved, 
hauled  in  a  hawser,  and  left  the  beetle  to  its  own  devices. 

A  tiny  speck  moved  over  the  water  heading  shoreward.  Susie 
knew  that  it  was  a  boat  carrying  a  line  to  the  marionettes. 
Presently  they  began  to  walk  heavily  across  the  green  and  the 
beetle  became  dismembered.  Two  low,  flat  lighters  floated 
now  on  even  keels;  the  centre,  the  part  which  most  resembled 
the  legs  of  the  beetle,  trailed  shoreward  following  the  rope. 
Lamely  and  in  visible  disorder  it  assumed  the  shape  and 
semblance  of  a  schooner  which  the  Stormy  Petrel,  daring 
at  length  to  intervene,  came  upon  and  pushed  until  she 
heeled  at  the  edge  of  the  bank.  Then  the  marionettes  drew 
near,  tied  her  securely  to  posts  and  the  tug  flapped  noisily  up 
river. 


26  THE  ISSUE 

As  it  passed  the  garden  a  man  came  to  the  starboard  paddle 
box  and  waved  his  cap.  Susie  took  out  her  handkerchief  and 
held  it  aloft.  The  two  continued  flourishing  until  distance 
swallowed  the  signals. 

The  river  yawned  sleepily  between. 


CHAPTER  III 

SAUNDERSON  SEEKS  ADVICE 

A  WOMAN  clad  in  black,  tall  and  straight  and  acid,  with 
narrow  brow  and  deep-lined  face,  stood  in  the  road- 
way viewing  the  people  returning  from  chapel.  Abbey- 
ville  High  Street  meandered  crookedly  behind  and  before 
her.  The  setting  sun  tinged  its  length  with  golden 
hues;  but  she  saw  no  beauty  in  its  irregularity,  no  tones 
on  the  gabled  .roofs,  the  old  red  tiles  and  weather-beaten 
walls.  She  considered  the  stucco  villas  on  the  hill,  fenced  in 
behind  grim  iron  railings  and  with  sentinel  pillars  guarding 
each  portal,  as  more  adapted  to  her  "spear";  and  loathed  the 
sight  of  her  husband's  domain  as  inappropriate  to  her  dignity. 

She  was  one  of  those  persons  who,  in  educated  circles,  are 
marked  more  by  their  antipathies  than  by  their  judgment; 
who  develop  a  rabid  and  outspoken  hatred  of  all  things  sane, 
and  come  generally  to  be  labelled  with  the  prefix  anti.  But 
Mrs.  Sutcliffe's  education  had  been  gleaned  in  the  days  of 
darkness  and  finished  by  the  acerbities  of  barter  in  the  small 
and  dingy  shop  her  father  kept  across  the  way.  By  her  mar- 
riage with  "Capting"  Sutcliffe  she  had  lifted  herself  into  a 
"professional  spear,"  but  she  retained  her  acidity,  her  dialect, 
and  a  tongue  before  which  mankind  quailed. 

It  was  said  in  Abbeyville  that  Mrs.  Sutcliffe  "couldn't  look 
pleased  if  she  wanted,  nater  havin'  provided  contrairywise." 
It  was  also  said  that  Mrs.  Sutcliffe  was  a"cawf-drop"  the  cap- 
tain could  not  assimilate,  and  the  village  opined  that  the  old 

27 


28  THE  ISSUE 

man  was  "blessed  wiv  the  patience  of  Jove,  or  he'd  a  trundled 
her  back  to  'er  marras."  But  as  that  process  involved  the 
breaking  of  a  tie  deemed  indissoluble,  and  the  discussion  of 
woes  in  a  court  of  law,  Mrs.  Sutcliffe  retained  her  position. 

She  stood  now  in  the  village  street  eyeing  the  passers  and 
waiting  for  Saunderson.  She  searched  the  people  as  they 
came  out  of  the  sun-glare  and  her  eyes  snapped.  Some  saw 
her,  others  failed  altogether  to  respond  to  her  grim  nod  and 
passed  on  ringing  the  changes  of  unkind  criticism.  In 
truth,  for  all  her  assumption  of  the  Christian  virtues,  Mrs. 
Sutcliffe  was  an  unpopular  woman  in  Abbeyville.  Her  phrase- 
ology was  a  synthesis  of  the  chapel  she  loved  and  the  river  she 
hated.  Her  temper  had  become  honestly  venomous  with  ad- 
vancing years.  Religion  had  long  ago  sapped  what  gentleness 
had  been  hers  and  the  practices  of  a  dreary  creed  had 
brought  her  to  look  upon  all  beauty  as  anathema,  all  gaiety  as 
of  the  devil,  all  charity  as  a  guise  wherein  to  cloak  man's 
indigence. 

She  gazed  out  upon  the  world  through  the  narrow  compass 
of  her  chapel  windows  and  passed  a  crooked  judgment  on  all 
whose  faces  betokened  happiness.  Religious  exercises  had 
superseded  the  vigilance  of  her  earlier  household  economy,  and 
Sutcliffe  had  come  within  sight  of  a  paltry  ruin,  a  ruin  all  the 
more  pitiful  to  see,  because  of  the  man's  strenuous  efforts  to 
eke  out  ways  and  means  and  keep  Susie  ignorant  of  what  was 
impending. 

Mrs.  Sutcliffe  turned  towards  her  home.  It  seemed  that 
Saunderson  did  not  intend  to  keep  his  appointment,  but  as 
she  neared  her  gate  the  man  appeared  at  the  end  of  the  street. 
He  came  from  the  park  where  the  schooner  lay  like  a  toy, 
stranded  at  the  edge  of  the  green.  Mrs.  Sutcliffe  moved  to 
meet  him  and  they  gripped  hands. 


SAUNDERSON  SEEKS  ADVICE  29 

"What  cheer,  mother?"  the  skipper  asked  in  his  deep  voice, 
"and  how  goes  Mr.  Slowboy  after  the  address?  Tired,  I'll 
warrant." 

"The  Lawd  giveth  an'  the  Lawd  taketh  away,"  said  the 
woman  with  but  little  hesitation,  for  she  was  newly  equipped 
by  a  two-hour  exercise.  "I  doubt  Mr.  Slowboy  has  found 
strength  from  'is  wrastle  wi'  Satan.  But  'ow's  yourself?  I 
hear  of  troublous  times;  of  the  sinkin'  of  ships  an'  the  drownin' 
of  the  ri-chus.  Is  it  true,  my  friend,  or  has  an  enemy  spread 
lies?" 

Saunderson  cast  a  look  towards  the  toy  at  the  foot  of  the 
park.  "Aye,"  he  said,  "I've  been  caught.  The  Bluebell's 
down  the  cellar — at  least,  that's  where  she  was;  now  she's 
yonder." 

Mrs.  Sutcliffe  reached  out  and  laid  an  encouraging  hand 
on  the  big  man's  sleeve.  "Thy  ways  are  not  My  ways,  saith 
the  Lawd  Gawd  of  'Ostes.  Let  not  your  heart  be  cast  down — 
it  were  Gawd's  will." 

Saunderson  viewed  this  pronouncement  with  some  impatience. 
"I  don't  know  about  that,"  he  said.  "The  Bluebell  was  good 
enough  for  me.  I  doubt  if  Gawd  had  much  to  do  wiv  it — it's 
more  the  fault  of  a — a  drunken  collier." 

"Not  a  sparrow  falleth  to  the  ground  but  wot  My  Father 
which  is  in  'Eaven  seeth  it,"  Mrs.  Sutcliffe  averred  in  positive 
tones.  "A  drunken  collier  is  a  missal  of  the  Most  Tgh,  sent 
to  punish  us  for  sins  we've  committed;  not,"  she  cumbrously 
apologised,  "not  that  you  'ave  committed  them,  but  one  of 
your  crew  may.  For  the  Lawd,  if  so  be  He  had  intended  you 
to  avoid  'Is  wrath,  would  a  turned  the  collier  inta  the  bank — 
even  as  'Ee  turned  Balaam's  ass  in  the  road  over  against 
Baalpeor." 

Saunderson  watched  her  out  of  narrowed  eyes.    He  knew 


30  THE  ISSUE 

nothing  of  the  quotation;  had  never  heard  of  Balaam's  ass; 
but  at  the  back  of  his  mind  he  perceived  that  Mrs.  Sutcliffe's 
judgment  was  also  the  judgment  of  Micky  Doolan,  the  mean- 
dering spinner  of  yarns  which  fell  true.  He  glanced  up  with  a 
question  which  might,  perchance,  test  the  matter.  "Then," 
he  said,  "you  hold  that  ships  don't  sink  wivout  Gawd's  orders  ?  " 

"Never,  Capting." 

"Nor  men  drown?" 

"Never,  Capting." 

"An*  you  believe  that  Gawd  takes  charge  of  every  move — 
pushes  men  an'  women  about  like  you  or  me  pushes  drafts  on 
a  checker  board?" 

"There  is  nothin'  hid  from  My  sight,  saith  the  Lawd.  Never 
was,  never  will  be — world  without  hend — amen." 

"An'  what  happens  to  a  man  when  he  dies?  Is  he  dead  all 
ends  up — soul,  spirit — the  whole  caboodle  ?" 

"The  spirit  never  dies;  it  lives  an'  moves  an'  'as  a  beinV 

"Ah,  so  I've  heard." 

"As  the  Spirit  of  Gawd  moved  on  the  face  of  the  waters 
after  the  flood,  so  the  spirits  of  the  dead  move  about  and  keep 
watch." 

Saunderson  considered  the  matter  a  moment  in  silence.  He 
gazed  through  an  alleyway  at  the  foot  of  which  the  river  ran 
babbling  in  the  dying  light.  It  carried,  according  to  this  creed, 
on  its  bosom,  ships  that  would  reach  harbour,  ships  that  would 
not;  crews  predestined  to  go  to  Heaven,  crews  predestined  to 
go  to  Hell — all  at  the  will  of  God;  without  explanation,  with- 
out preparation.  Saunderson  squared  his  shoulders  and 
faced  about  speaking  with  renewed  vigour. 

"What's  done's  done,"  he  decided.  "If  there's  a  cause 
there's  a  cause — an'  whimperin'  won't  alter  it.  But,  it  seems 
to  me,  that  if  this  is  the  way  of  it,  Gawd  might  have  arranged 


SAUNDERSON  SEEKS  ADVICE  31 

to  let  me  know  what  I've  done  that's  wrong — an'  given  me  a 
chance — just  a  chance."  He  paused  a  moment  still  staring 
at  the  moving  river,  then  broke  out  afresh:  "We  aren't  saints — 
none  of  us.  I've  had  my  innings — put  in  better  than  forty 
years;  but  I  can't  see  where  I've  worked  for  this — this — 
Chks!"  again  he  hung  a  moment  in  thought,  then  resumed  on 
an  entirely  new  issue.  "You  see,"  he  said,  "the  trouble  is  the 
Bluebell's  not  finished.  She's  been  picked  up,  towed  home, 
an'  will  have  to  go  on  the  ways.  Now  if  I  had  lost  her  clean 
the  boot  would  have  been  on  the  other  leg.  The  Guv'nor 
wouldn't  have  kicked  up  nasty,  for  the  schooner's  done  her 
time.  It  might  have  been  worth  twenty  pound  to  me;  but 
now,"  Saunderson  snapped  his  fingers,  "now  it's  worth  about 
that." 

Mrs.  Sutcliffe  sighed.  "It's  a  wicked,  thankless  world, 
Capting,  an'  the  ways  of  the  rich  is  percurious." 

"It's  a  world  cram  jam  full  of  manopolies,"  he  returned 
with  some  heat.  "Steamers  is  manopolies.  They  fair  get  my 
hair  out  of  curl.  They  think  the  river  is  built  for  them  an' 
no  one  else  has  a  right  to  be  afloat.  Lumme!  there's  a  day 
coming  when  I'll  show  them  a  thing  or  two — steamship  owners, 
factory  owners — chks!  sweaters  of  the  poor  I  [call  them,  wiv 
their  wage  cuttin'  an'  their  machinery  an'  what  not.  Wait  a 
bit.  You'll  see." 

He  walked  truculently  beside  her  until  they  reached  the  gate 
and  Mrs.  Sutcliffe  halted  with  her  finger  on  the  latch.  "You'll 
do  great  things,"  she  replied.  "My  heart  goes  out  in  synthapy 
to  you;  but  you'll  step  in.  The  gell's  there." 

"Not  much  use — how  is  she?"    He  hesitated. 

"As  well  as  can  be  expected  of  any  gell  as  wastes  'er  time 
readin'  books  an'  holds  aloof  from  the  Lawd's  'ouse." 

As  Saunderson  made  no  rejoinder  she  added  after  a  pause: 


32  THE  ISSUE 

"It's  time  some  good  man  took  'er  in  hand,  Capting — that's 
wot  I  think." 

"She's  a  good  scholar,"  he  returned,  "what  I'm  not.  What 
I'd  give  my  earnings  to  be,  now,  every  stiver." 

Mrs.  Sutcliffe  watched  him  with  flickering  eyes.  She  had 
no  mind  to  allow  this  matter  to  drag;  but  that  Susie  should  be 
praised  was  too  much  for  her  equanimity.  She  cried  out: 
"An*  aren't  you  'er  match  in  a  thousand  ways?  In  book 
learnin'  Susie  may  know  more — does,  I  doubt;  but  wot  good 
'as  it  done  'er?  Where's  she  the  better  for  the  vicar's  'elp? 
He  took  her  in  'and — 'she's  clever,'  'ee  says  to  himself;  'I'll 
putt  'er  through  the  mill,  an'  we  can  get  'er  cheap  for  the 
schools,'  'ee  thinks.  So  'ee  putt  'er  through  an'  she's  assistant 
mistress  now — got  'er  place  a  fortnight  ago.  'Ee'd  better  a 
left  'er  to  assist  'er  mother.  'Ee's  proselyted  'er  out  of  the 
chapel  an'  made  'er  a  candle  for  the  church.  Presently,  when 
she's  done  'er  turn,  out  she'll  go,  an'  I  ast  you,  wot's  to  come  of 
'er  then.  She'll  be  old.  Capting,  why  don't  you  take  'er  in 
'and  to  once?" 

Saunderson's  dark  face  grew  flushed,  but  he  stammered 
like  one  ashamed:  "She  won't  look  at  me — won't  look  at  me. 
It's  Elliott  she  wants." 

Mrs.  Sutcliffe  sniffed  her  contempt.  She  turned  on  him 
with  an  expressive  gesture.  "A  man,"  she  announced  grimly, 
"  can  always  make  a  way.  You  want  her.  You  aren't  easily 
put  aside.  Elliott's  nobody.  Say  so." 

He  smote  his  hands  together  crying  out  almost  fiercely;  "I 
love  her.  I'd  give  my  soul  to  win  her.  I'd  give  my  chances 
of  bein'  head  of  the  Union — a  thing  I'm  near.  I'd  give  all  I 
have — all;  but  she  loves  Elliott — sees  no  one  else.  I'm  not 
in  the  same  street  with  him — what  can  a  man  do  ?" 

Mrs.  Sutcliffe  advanced  a  step  and  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm. 


SAUNDERSON  SEEKS  ADVICE  33 

"She  doesn't  care  more  for  him  than  you,"  she  averred;  "it's 
a  toss  up  which  she  takes.  A  maid  always  plays  her  fish — 
why  shouldn't  she?  Besides  Elliott's  a  fool  an'  doesn't  mean 
marryin',  if  you  ask  me.  You  'old  the  key,  too.  I  put  it  in 
your  'and  long  since.  If  you're  so  keen  set  why  don't  you 
use  it." 

Saunderson  breathed  hard.  The  suggestion  opened  a  new 
heaven  to  him.  He  had  no  idea  that  he  had  so  staunch  an 
ally;  but  the  woman's  words  left  no  misapprehension  in  his 
mind.  He  replied  eagerly,  "I  will  use  it.  If  you'll  help  me, 
I  will  use  it." 

Mrs.  Sutcliffe  gripped  him  by  the  hand.  "I'll  help  you," 
she  whispered.  ''I'll  make  her  throw  up  Elliott — ah'  if  she 
won't  I'll  make  her  so  as  she'll  be  glad  to  take  any  man's  'and 
that's  offered — it's  fer  you  to  do  the  rest." 

Saunderson  smiled.  "It's  a  pity  there  aren't  more  of  your 
sort,  mother,"  he  said.  "It  would  ease  things  mightily  in 
this  weary  world." 

She  turned  to  him  with  a  dolorous  inflection.  "You've 
'ad  your  troubles,  Capting,  I  doubt.  But  Gawd's  mercy  is  on 
them  as  fear  'Im,  an'  the  gell  will  make  you  forget  wot's  gone 
before." 

This  latter  she  put  in  as  an  afterthought;  then  with  a  sigh 
of  infinite  regret  for  the  wickedness  of  mankind,  she  entered 
the  garden. 

Saunderson  latched  the  gate. 


Viewed  superficially  there  was  no  great  divergence  in  the 
appearance  of  these  two  men.  Both  were  tall  and  strong, 
both  were  bronzed,  both  spoke  the  language  of  the  Thames — 
but  here  analogy  ends,  for  of  them  Elliott  was  impulsive, 


34  THE  ISSUE 

generous,  and  hot-tempered,  while  Saunderson  was  vindictive, 
brooding,  savage.  Elliott  young  and  plastic,  Saunderson  a 
man  of  opinions,  a  man  well  advanced  in  the  forties. 

A  glance  into  the  strong  face  of  this  Regenerator  of  the 
Masses  would  have  revealed  to  the  physiognomist  a  singularly 
flaccid  mouth  and  powerful  jaw.  Criticism  would  have  pointed 
with  disdainful  finger  to  the  fact  that  the  straight  brow  was 
counteracted  by  sensuous  lips  and  a  head  overweighted  at  the 
base  of  the  skull.  Suggestions  would  have  crept  in:  possi- 
bilities by  a  turn  of  the  pen  would  have  become  actualities, 
and  Saunderson  would  have  found  himself  written  down 
"dangerous." 

It  was  the  face  and  head  of  a  strong  and  brainy  man  of 
meagre  education;  of  one  who  watched  the  social  problems 
through  the  narrow  glass  of  ignorance;  who  recognised  the 
misery  of  the  crowded  alleys,  the  luxury  of  the  mansions;  who 
saw  the  unequal  distribution  of  wealth  and  knew,  by  personal 
contact,  of  the  grinding  and  sweating  by  which  men  grow  rich. 
But,  on  the  other  hand,  he  knew  nothing  of  the  methods  by 
which  these  problems  may  be  attacked;  knew  only  that  it  was 
what  he  called  "  Gawd's  truth,"  and  set  himself  to  arrange 
"the  anomalies"  in  his  own  crude  fashion. 

His  eloquence  had  gained  him  the  name  of  Windbag  along 
the  river  side,  which  was  in  itself  a  tribute  to  the  intelligence 
of  his  friends.  Indeed  the  man  had  earned  it.  For  a  worker 
was  never  dismissed,  wages  never  fell,  nor  was  there  ever  a 
strike  or  paltry  labour  trouble  of  any  kind,  but  he  championed 
"the  cause"  and  preached  the  doctrine  of  communism  with 
the  fervent  heat  of  one  of  nature's  orators. 

With  less  education  he  would  have  grovelled  contentedly  in 
the  ruck  of  his  tribe;  with  more  he  would  have  made  a  powerful 
thinker,  preacher,  or  leader — for,  with  education  and  sys- 


SAUNDERSON  SEEKS  ADVICE  35 

tematic  drill,  that  lack  of  self-control,  which  was  his  bane, 
would  have  disappeared  and  left  him  to  a  life  of  commonplace 
aims. 

It  was  Saunderson's  fate  continually  to  run  his  head  against 
a  brick  wall.  He  knew  that  the  wall  was  there  and  had  some 
notion  of  its  quality;  but  he  had  not  sufficient  wisdom  to  attack 
it  with  diplomacy.  What  learning  he  had  simply  tended  to 
exasperate  him  with  the  conditions  in  which  he  moved.  He 
had  lived  hard  and  struggled  to  save.  He  desired  to  learn,  but 
passion  stood  in  his  path.  His  ambition  was  to  lead  a  winning 
fight  against  the  masters,  and  nothing  had  come  to  soften  him 
till  Susie  crossed  his  path.  And  at  this  time,  when  he  was 
halting,  perhaps  for  the  first  time,  on  the  verge  of  better  things; 
when  the  contagion  of  the  girl's  more  refined  nature  bade  him 
live  higher  if  he  would  compete  for  her  affections;  then,  in  that 
hour,  came  the  disastrous  passage  from  the  Gat. 

Most  men  would  have  thrown  the  whole  incident  to  the 
winds;  but  in  Saunderson's  mind  the  memory  grew  like  a 
festering  wound  until  it  permeated  his  whole  being.  His 
slipshod  knowledge,  his  haunting  dread  of  things  unseen,  the 
rapidity  with  which  this  thing  had  come  upon  him,  hot  on 
the  heels  of  the  story,  all  conspired  to  place  it  in  the  forefront. 

The  Bluebell  had  come  under  the  curse.  She  was  "down 
the  cellar. "  Micky  Doolan  had  foreseen  this  thing.  These 
were  the  facts  which  appeared. 


CHAPTER  IV 
MRS.  SUTCLIFFE  DEALS  THE  CARDS 

MRS.  SUTCLIFFE  stood  at  the  door  of  her  house. 
She  expected  Susie  and  waited  for  her,  hot  with 
the  memory  of  her  talk  with  that  protege"  of  hers, 
Saunderson.  Susie  should  have  been  at  home.  It  was  an 
opportunity.  Mrs.  Sutcliffe  said  so  with  thin  lips  as  she 
searched  the  roadway. 

For  days  scarcely  a  sentence  had  passed  between  these  two. 
The  long  series  of  bickerings  had  culminated  in  a  sort  of 
armed  truce;  neither  would  give  way  an  inch.  It  was  a  posi- 
tion which  had  grown  out  of  small  and  inconsiderable  begin- 
nings. The  difference  in  their  ages,  the  bitterness  engendered 
by  the  fact  that  Susie  was  her  husband's  child,  not  hers,  the 
affection  the  old  man  lavished  on  his  daughter — all  tended 
to  sharpen  the  hostility  which  had  existed  from  the  earliest 
days  of  their  companionship.  Susie  was  educated,  Mrs. 
Sutcliffe  was  not;  Susie  was  guarded  by  the  church  on  the  hill, 
Mrs.  Sutcliffe  was  a  follower  of  "Passon  Slowboy"  and  wor- 
shipped at  a  Bethel;  Susie  had  no  household  duties  to  per- 
form, Mrs.  Sutcliffe  told  herself  she  had  enough  and  to  spare. 
She  said  too,  when  presently  she  perceived  a  trim  form  moving 
down  the  street,  that  the  "gell's"  defiant  and  rather  super- 
cilious manner  was  insufferable. 

She  found  no  grace  in  the  easy  pose  of  that  tall  young 
figure,  no  beauty  in  the  gentle  curves  and  dainty  habili- 
ments— the  latter  she  averred  belonged  indubitably  to  the 

36 


MRS.  SUTCLIFFE  DEALS  THE  CARDS          37 

devil;  the  rest,  as  far  as  she  could  see,  was  well  on  the  road 
thither. 

Susie  entered  the  garden,  latched  the  gate,  and  passed  into 
the  kitchen.  Mrs.  Sutcliffe  followed,  speaking  acridly. 

"Wen  I  was  a  gell,"  she  announced,  "I  dusn't  flounce  past 
me  mother  as  though  she's  dirt.  I'd  a  got  as  comfortable  a 
spankin'  as  'ere  or  there  a  one — an'  small  blame  to  'em  for 
lickin'  me.  I  were  trained  to  treat  me  mother  with  respect — 
'adn't  any  father  or  passon  to  take  me  part.  That's  'ow  I 
were  brought  up." 

Susie  watched  the  narrow  anger-laden  eyes  with  com- 
plete indifference  and  continued  to  unpin  her  hat  without  re- 
mark. 

"Nothin'  excuses  insalence  to  gray  'airs,"  Mrs.  Sutcliffe 
continued  aggressively.  "Nothin'  is  more  contrairy  to  the 
teachin'  of  Gawd's  'Oly  Book — ast  the  Reverend  Mister 
Hoakley  if  so  be  you  doubt  my  words.  I'm  speakin'  to  you, 
Miss,"  she  added  pointedly. 

Susie  looked  over  her.  For  the  moment  she  appeared  to  be 
engaged  in  studying  the  ceiling,  but  she  said,  "That,  surely, 
requires  no  explanation:  well?" 

"It's  eddication  that's  done  it,"  Mrs.  Sutcliffe  resumed  with 
mournful  resignation;  "if  father  'ad  done  'is  dooty  by  me,  it 
isn't  the  wickerage  that  'ud  'av  'ad  the  benefit  of  yer  hours  of 
idleness,  nor  the  schools,  but  me  that's  workin'  me  fingers  to 
the  blessed  bone  to  keep  you  in  vittals.  You're  too  good  fer 
the  likes  of  us;  it's  time  you  were  married." 

"  Judging  from  what  one  sees,"  Susie  returned  with  a  laugh, 
"marriage  is  not  always  an  Eldorado." 

Mrs.  Sutcliffe  paused,  sniffing  at  the  simile.  Suspicion 
stood  large  in  her  eyes.  "Whom  the  Lawd  joineth  together 
let  no  man  thrust  assender,"  she  answered,  vaguely  conscious 


38  THE  ISSUE 

that  the  girl  was  sneering  at  her,  and  taking  shelter,  as  was  her 
wont,  in  biblical  quotation. 

" Thanks,"  said  Susie  cheerfully.  "I'm  in  no  hurry.  Some 
day  perhaps." 

"Give  me  a  man,"  Mrs.  Sutcliffe  broke  in  pointedly,  "as 
'as  steadied  down  an'  is  able  to  make  a  home  for  a  gell  wivout 
any  long-winded  walkin's-out — for  with  years  cometh  discre- 
tion, saith  the  Lawd  Gawd  of  'Ostes." 

"With  years  also  come  ague,  rheumatism,  and  many  other 
things,"  said  Susie.  "Indeed  I  prefer  youth  to  age.  You  did, 
I  expect,  when  you  were  a  girl." 

Mrs.  Sutcliffe's  face  showed  that  she  understood  to 
a  nicety  this  remark.  Her  voice  when  next  she  spoke 
rang  sharply  didactic;  but  she  avoided  the  point  at  issue. 
"A  gell  should  seek  guidance  of  the  Lawd  an'  of  her 
mother,"  she  cried,  "an*  I  say,  as  I've  said  before,  give 
me  a  man  that's  sowed  'is  boats  an'  will  settle  down  com- 
ferable.  That's  the  man  fer  my  money  an'  you  won't  set 
eyes  on  a  steadier,  more  Gawd-fearin'  Christian  man  than 
Capting  Saundisson." 

"Saunderson!"  Susie  returned  with  a  slight  accent  on  the 
name,  "you  misjudge  him,  surely;  besides,  I  could  not  marry 
him." 

"W'y  not,  Miss  Pert — ain't  'ee  good  enough  fer  you?" 

"Oh,  yes — he  is  too  good." 

"I  should  like  to  a  seen  the  man  I  thought  too  good  fer  me 
at  your  age,"  came  the  answer  with  a  sniff  of  derision. 

The  girl  turned  round  with  sudden  earnestness.  "You 
don't  want  me  to  marry  a  man  I  hate,  do  you?  I  hate  Jim 
Saunderson  and  I  love  Jack.  When  he  is  ready  I  will  go  away 
and  not  trouble  you  with  my  presence;  but  to  your  friend,  I 
will  give  nothing — only  hate." 


MRS.  SUTCLIFFE  DEALS  THE  CARDS    39 

"You  can  give  him  what  you  like,"  the  other  sneered,  "w'en 
you've  married  him." 

Susie  took  no  notice.  She  attempted  to  pass,  but  Mrs. 
Sutcliffe  barred  the  way.  "An'  as  fer  that  Jack  Elliott," 
she  asserted  leaning  forward,  hands  on  hips,  "it's  my  belief 
'ee  don't  mean  marryin'." 

"That  isn't  true  and  you  know  it." 

Mrs.  Sutcliffe  came  nearer.  "I  know  more  than  that  about 
'im,"  she  cried  out,  then  paused  watching  the  girl  through 
narrow  eyes.  Again,  with  a  burst  of  candour;  "Susie,  lissen 
to  me.  There's  no  room  fer  you  an'  me  in  this  'ouse.  You 
are  yer  father's  gell,  not  mine;  but  I'm  'is  wife  an'  I  mean  to 
stay.  Very  well;  there's  two  chaps  danglin' after  you.  One's 
a  fool  wiv  more  than  one  maid  at  'is  'eels,  with  no  money,  an' 
p'raps  a  year  or  more  of  waitin'  before  'im.  The  other's  a 
man,  money  in  'and,  all  ready  to  take  you  over.  You  choose 
the  man,  me  gell,  an'  I'm  your  friend  fer  life;  choose  the  other 
an'  we  part.  That's  straight  an'  so  you  understand." 

Susie  made  no  reply.  The  suggestion  seemed  to  strike  her 
as  ludicrous.  "Enemy  for  life!"  she  cried.  "What  else  have 
you  always  been?  I  love  Jack.  I  am  his.  I  will  never 
marry  another." 

Mrs.  Sutcliffe's  eyes  took  a  derisive  gleam.  She  threw  back 
her  head  and  again  her  arms  were  akimbo.  "Bless  my  soul!" 
she  broke  out,  "Lissen  to  it  then.  La,  lissen  to  it!  Lawd!" 
she  continued  brutally  and  with  a  sudden  change  of  manner, 
"you'd  best  be  chary  wot  you  give  to  any  man,  me  gell,  ontil 
you've  got  the  ring  on  yer  finger." 

Susie  made  no  response.  She  stood  staring  into  the  vin- 
dictive eyes,  marking  the  narrow  brow,  the  thin,  set  lips,  and 
wondering  when  she  would  be  in  a  position  to  refute  these 
statements,  all  so  unjust  to  her  lover.  But  Mrs.  Sutcliffe  was 


40  THE  ISSUE 

concerned  more  with  her  own  than  with  Susie's  thoughts  and 
speculations.  And  again  came  the  stinging  voice,  grimly 
breaking  the  silence. 

"Aye,"  it  said,  "fer  gells  as  give  theirselves  away  wi'out  the 
'elp  of  the  passon,  is  app  to  get  left  wi'  nothin'  else  to  give  away 
— 'cept,  maybe,  the  baby." 

Susie  flushed  hotly  and  caught  up  her  hat.  She  left  the 
house  without  further  speech,  her  ears  tingling,  her  eyes  aflame. 
She  would  never  argue  again.  She  hated  herself  for  having 
done  so  now.  She  felt  the  uselessness  of  explanation  with 
one  whose  sole  weapon  was  a  venomous  tongue,  backed  by 
abuse  of  the  only  man  on  earth,  her  lover. 

She  came  to  the  park.  Here  at  least  there  would  be  peace. 
Here,  in  the  solemn  evening,  she  could  watch  the  flashing  wave- 
lets and  speculate  on  the  interminable  fleet  passing  up  the 
short  reach.  Here,  too,  she  could  picture  Jack's  surroundings 
and  wait  for  his  coming.  If  her  father  had  been  at  home  she 
would  have  gone  to  him  and  sobbed  out  her  trouble  on  his 
kindly  breast.  But  her  father  was  away.  Jack  was  away. 
There  remained  no  one  with  whom  she  could  consult. 

The  park  at  Abbeyville  is  a  beautiful  spot  without  the  vestige 
of  resemblance  to  any  park  extant.  It  is  a  natural  wilderness, 
lying  at  the  river  side,  consisting  of  a  stretch  of  meadow,  some 
beaten  tracks,  a  cluster  or  so  of  gigantic  beech,  and  here  and 
there  a  rambling  patch  of  gorse. 

On  the  one  hand  clustered  the  village,  red-tiled  and  pictur- 
esque; on  the  other,  chalk  cuttings  clothed  in  valerian  and  par- 
tially hidden  by  the  trees  and  shrubs.  In  the  background 
sheltered  by  the  high  white  cliffs  and  nestling  amidst  a  forest 
of  elms,  stood  the  manor,  a  fine  old  country  house  slowly  dying 
before  the  advancing  factories.  In  front  the  river. 

For  an  hour  Susie  sat  on  the  bank  watching  the  moving 


MRS.  SUTCLIFFE  DEALS  THE  CARDS          41 

shipping.  It  was  nearly  seven  o'clock  and  a  golden  autumn  sun 
setting  behind  the  blue  haze  at  the  top  of  the  reach.  Out 
there,  indistinct  with  the  blur  of  coming  night,  lay  the  forest  of 
masts  and  hulls  without  which  Abbeyville  never  seemed  com- 
plete. At  wide  intervals  the  hum  of  a  distant  horn  mingled 
with  the  brisk  cries  of  the  boys  playing  on  the  training  ships. 

Susie  leaned  against  an  upturned  boat  watching  the  glowing 
scene.  Among  those  sights  and  sounds  she  had  lived  her  life. 
Here  under  Jack's  guidance  she  had  learned  the  difference 
between  a  schooner  and  a  brig,  between  a  fog  horn  bellowing 
mournfully  on  a  hazy  night  and  a  steamer  waking  the  echoes 
for  a  pilot.  Here  she  had  laughed  and  played  and  learned  to 
love;  and  here,  especially  at  the  quiet  hour  of  sunset,  she 
often  roamed  when  Jack  was  away,  dreaming  dreams  and 
seeing  visions  of  an  impossible  future — for  the  life  of  sordid 
Methodist  cant  which  struck  her  so  keenly  at  home,  taught 
her  also  to  reach  after  that  perfect  and  ideal  love  which  the 
Virginias  of  these  pushful  days  usually  find  illusive. 

A  boat  crossed  her  line  of  vision  coming  from  the  group  of 
shipping,  lying  off  the  jetty.  Susie  did  not  notice  it,  yet  she 
was  intent  on  the  picture  spread  before  her.  Half  an  hour 
passed.  The  sun  went  down  and  the  sky  blazed  with  fiery 
splashes.  The  glare  sank  into  the  girl's  heart.  She  had  for- 
gotten her  anger,  she  had  forgotten  her  surroundings,  her  soul 
went  out  across  the  waters  with  the  cry  of  a  wounded  bird: 

"Jack!     Oh,  Jack,  come  and  take  me  to  you!" 

She  rose  from  her  seat  and  turned  to  go  home,  and  there, 
almost  at  her  feet  stood  her  lover.  In  a  moment,  with  a  cry 
of  absolute  joy,  she  was  in  his  arms,  her  face  surrendered  to 
his  kisses. 

"Oh,  my  darling!"  she  whispered  breathless. 

"My  little  girl!" 


42  THE  ISSUE 

"Jack,  Jack,  you  must  not  go  away — you  must  not." 

He  held  her  from  him,  seeking  her  eyes,  while  she  as  strongly 
strove  to  hide  them. 

"I  won't,  Susie;  not  till  you  come  with  me." 

She  turned  to  face  him  now,  her  lips  quivering,  her  eyes 
bright  with  tears.  "Jack!"  she  faltered  and  fell  into  silence. 

"Susie!"  he  mocked,  laughing.  But  she  crept  into  his  arms 
and  clung  there  shivering,  while  he,  ignorant  of  her  trouble, 
explained  in  his  firm  young  voice: 

"It's  true,  Susie!  I've  come  back  to  settle  it.  We  can  be 
married  whenever  you  say  the  word.  How  does  it  happen 
so  suddenly?  Because  I'm  in  luck.  Tumbled  across  a  god- 
send last  trip  and  Dunscombe's  as  pleased  as  Punch." 

She  raised  her  head  and  looked  at  him,  forgetful  of  her  tear- 
stained  face,  forgetful  of  her  trouble,  swiftly  thrilling  with  the 
hope  his  words  had  given  her. 

"You've  been  crying,  lass,"  he  remarked,  examining  her 
eyes. 

"I  didn't  see  you  coming,  Jack,"  she  evaded. 

"But  your  weren't  crying  about  that?" 

"No,  Jack." 

"Then  what  was  it?" 

She  turned  to  him  with  a  gust  of  passion.  "  Dear,  it  is  every- 
thing— everything.  I'm  promised  to  you.  Mother  knows  it, 
but  she  insists  I  am  to  marry  Saunderson — Saunderson,  her 
'Chrischun  Gawd-fearer'  whom  she  loves." 

"Chut!"  he  frowned,  "we've  heard  that  before.  Not  quite 
so  plain,  perhaps,  but  it's  been  there  and  I've  seen  it.  Well, 
what  does  she  think  I  am?  Does  she  suppose  I'm  going  to 
stand  by  and  watch  him  take  you?  Does  she  suppose  I've 
played  the  waiting  game  for  fun?  Can't  she  understand  I 
wanted  to  find  you  something  better  than  a  room  at  the  top  of 


MRS.  SUTCLIFFE  DEALS  THE  CARDS          43 

Panter's  Court,  maybe?  The  Lord  look  sideways  on  her  for 
a  canting  hypocrite.  I  have  no  patience  with  her,  and  she'll 
know  it." 

"Jack,  Jack!"  she  urged  rushing  in  to  stay  the  storm,  "don't 
heed  her.  I  would  not  have  told  you  but — but " 

"Yes,  I  know.  She  just  bullies  the  life  out  of  you,  like  she 
has  the  old  man.  Well,  we'll  stop  it.  We  need  not  wait  now. 
It  shall  end." 

He  spoke  with  the  strength  born  of  his  sudden  accession  to 
wealth  which  might  perhaps  run  to  one  hundred  pounds,  per- 
haps sink  to  fifty,  a  paltry  sum  on  which  to  risk  the  expenses 
of  matrimony  in  some  circles,  but  in  his,  a  fortune.  Susie 
glanced  in  his  face  as  she  noted  the  change. 

"Yes,  dear,"  she  replied,  "it  must  end." 

"When?" 

"When,  when — oh,  Jack,  when  you  will." 

Then  fell  a  silence;  a  silence  as  deep  as  that  which  had 
lasted  while  the  sun  sank  in  the  haze;  a  silence  filled  with 
passionate  caresses  as  they  stood  with  strained  arms,  breast  to 
breast,  lip  to  lip  on  the  high  sea  wall. 

The  crimson  glare  had  faded  from  the  higher  horizon. 
Low  amidst  the  blur  and  smoke  of  London,  a  bloody  streak 
paled.  Night  was  marching  across  the  winding  reaches  and 
in  place  of  the  sun-tinged  wavelets,  lay  a  wide  expanse  of  cold, 
gray  water. 

The  two  stood  there,  quietly  reading  each  other's  faces. 
The  one,  pale  under  the  tan ;  the  other  crimson  and  with  flash- 
ing eyes,  eyes  that  entreated,  begged  for  peace  and  happiness. 
Arms  linked,  they  climbed  slowly  from  the  sea  wall  to  find  it. 
They  skirted  the  grass  and  came  to  the  back  of  the  park  where 
a  hillock  rose,  a  knoll  crowned  with  trees  and  fringed  with 
walls  of  blackthorn.  This  was  the  Spinney.  At  the  summit 


44  THE  ISSUE 

the  ground  sank  into  a  minature  dell  and  the  bushes  ran  riot 
amidst  a  tangled  network  of  roots  and  grass  and  bracken.  It 
was  a  place  consecrated  in  their  memory  by  many  an  hour  of 
happiness.  Here  Jack  had  fashioned  a  bower  for  his  sweet- 
heart; here,  not  long  ago,  he  had  built  a  rustic  seat  for  the  girl 
who  was  to  be  his  wife  when  fortune  smiled;  and  here,  in  the 
stillness  of  that  river-girt  wild,  the  two  came  once  more  to 
whisper  and  to  dream. 

In  glimpses,  through  the  trees,  they  could  see  the  sheeny 
water  and  catch  hints  of  the  moving  shipping;  but  the 
man  heeded  nothing  of  this.  The  business  of  his  life  lay 
face  to  face  with  nature.  He  had  watched  it  in  so  many 
guises — through  rain  and  snow,  hail  and  sleet,  with  the  pon- 
derous accompaniment  of  heavy  boots,  oilskins,  and  wet  necks, 
and  had,  in  the  course  of  time,  been  disillusioned.  Besides, 
the  matter  in  hand  was  love,  and  when  a  man  discusses  mat- 
rimony, the  maiden's  eyes  act  as  loadstones  and  all  outside 
influences  are  forgotten.  Which  is  as  it  should  be,  even  in  a 
world  so  prosaic  that  pounds  sterling  stand  for  a  man's  worth, 
and  the  amount  of  a  girl's  dowry  as  a  signal  to  the  multitude  of 
her  chances. 

So  they  found  seats  among  the  trees  and  the  girl's  head 
rested  on  the  man's  shoulder.  Love  throbbed  in  the  heart  of 
each — love  and  forgetfulness;  the  present,  present;  the  future, 
nowhere.  Sometimes  they  talked,  softly,  as  lovers  talk ;  some- 
times they  remained  in  silence,  and  perhaps  the  silence  was 
the  more  eloquent  of  the  twain. 

It  is  possible  to  say  so  much  without  speech  in  the  fields; 
it  is  possible  to  beg,  to  plead  and  gain  acquiescence  with  the 
eyes  alone  when  a  cleft  in  the  rocks  is  our  resting-place  and 
the  sea  moans  at  our  feet.  And  in  these  dim  reaches,  far  down 
by  the  estuary,  the  voice  of  the  sea  is  never  entirely  absent. 


MRS.  SUTCLIFFE  DEALS  THE  CARDS          45 

The  river  has  broadened.  The  tides  come  up.  They  sing 
the  same  song  on  the  foreshore,  the  ripples  break  in  the  same 
fine  curve,  whispering,  tempting,  wooing — and  the  river  folk 
know  the  moods. 

To-night  it  wooed.  A  soft  south  wind  stirred  the  branches 
overhead,  but  the  bracken  was  still.  The  rooks  slept  without 
fear  high  up  there  where  the  stars  peeped.  The  denizens  of 
bush  and  cranny,  grass  and  burrow  moved  about  the  affairs 
of  life  silent  as  the  stars,  cautiously  as  a  field  mouse  standing 
sniffing  on  the  threshold  of  home.  And  the  man  and  the  girl 
rested  together  without  speech. 

Heaven  is  a  great  silence;  love  is  akin  to  it.  We  may,  per- 
haps, never  quite  understand  heaven,  but  love  we  may  always 
understand.  Not  the  love,  you  comprehend,  of  madame  who 
has  bartered  her  beauty  for  a  consideration  hi  diamonds;  but 
the  love  of  a  girl  and  a  man  of  the  people  unstained  by  life  in 
a  city.  Nature  speaks  here  in  spite  of  the  cynics.  It  speaks 
in  spite  of  laws  and  conventions;  in  spite  of  trouble,  pain  or 
suffering.  The  girl  looks  up  and  takes  the  man's  kisses;  the 
man  looks  down  and  vows  eternal  constancy,  eternal  watch- 
fulness— man,  of  whom  on  earth  there  is  nothing  more  unstable 
or  more  careless  of  the  future. 

A  storm  lies  brooding  on  the  horizon — it  is  unworthy  of 
consideration,  "a  cloud  no  bigger  than  a  man's  hand."  The 
archives  are  dark  with  portent.  The  police  courts  speak  elo- 
quently of  this  or  that  futility.  Mrs.  Stogers  has  black  eyes 
at  the  hand  of  her  husband — eyes  which  once  he  praised  for 
their  beauty.  Nell,  formerly  the  belle  of  the  village,  is  now 
mother  of  ten  dirty-faced  children  and  is  glad  of  "goes  of  gin" 
to  pass  the  time;  but  who  sees  these  things?  or  who,  at  all 
events,  heeds  them? 

Not  a  man  sitting  among  the  trees  with  a  girl's  head  resting 


46  THE  ISSUE 

on  his  shoulder.  Not  a  girl  held  in  his  embrace,  a  slim,  young 
girl  who  trusts  him  and  finds  him  worthy  to  be  king. 

There  were  little  rifts  of  talk  between  these  two;  bursts  of 
exultation  from  Jack  whose  prowess  in  that  matter  of  salvage 
would  not  go  unrewarded;  a  note  or  two  of  plans,  desires — all 
interspersed  with  kisses.  Speed  was  the  necessity  from  Jack's 
point  of  view.  He  aimed  to  put  a  stop  to  ''these  worries," 
by  "going  to  Riverton  to-morrow  to  stand  before  the  registrar," 
but  Susie  held  back  here.  She  wished  to  be  married  properly, 
from  church.  Marriage  in  a  registry  office  was  not  marriage 
at  all,  and  besides,  she  desired  Mr.  Oakley  to  tie  the  bond  and 
her  father  was  necessary  to  render  the  ceremony  complete. 
It  would  take  three  weeks  at  least,  she  decided. 

Jack  argued  quite  sanely,  in  the  face  of  existing  events,  that 
it  was  absurd  to  wait  and  that  Susie  courted  trouble  by  doing 
so.  "Why  not  cut  the  church  and  have  done  with  it?"  he 
questioned  relevantly.  "There's  no  knowing  what  mischief 
that  mother  of  yours  will  be  up  to,  and  there's  Saunderson, 
too — come,  Susie,"  he  urged,  "look  at  things  straight  and 
never  mind  the  church." 

But  the  girl  only  shook  her  head  and  clung  more  closely  to 
her  lover.  "Dear,"  she  whispered,  "let  me  have  my  way  in 
this.  I  have  set  my  heart  on  it  and  I  don't  care  a  straw 
for  mother  now,  or  for  Saunderson."  She  lifted  her  lips  to 
his  as  she  spoke  and  the  starlight  showed  them  soft  and 
carmine. 

What  could  a  man  do  in  such  a  case?  What  would  most 
men  do?  He  might  kiss  the  lips  and  say  nothing,  or,  if  he 
were  wise  and  old  and  had  experience,  possibly  he  might  argue, 
if  only  to  prolong  a  situation  so  beautifully  stirring;  but  Jack 
was  unversed  in  the  wiles  of  experience.  He  felt  the  girl 
clinging  to  him,  heard  that  she  begged,  saw  her  eyes  soft  and 


MRS.  SUTCLIFFE  DEALS  THE  CARDS          47 

pleading  and  answered  after  his  kind,  "God  love  you,  lass;  I'd 
do  more  than  that  to  see  you  happy." 

An  hour  passed;  they  still  sat  amidst  the  trees,  arms  twined 
and  at  rest.  A  woman  crept  from  the  path  out  there  in  the 
dusk  and  stood  watching — they  made  no  sign  of  having  seen 
her.  Twigs  snapped  beneath  her  feet  as  she  moved  away — 
they  did  not  hear. 

The  river  at  rest.    Nature  at  rest.    Night  with  its  veil 
drawn  screening  youth  from  the  world  of  men;   night  with  a 
soft  south  wind  to  fan  faces  foolishly  heated;   then  a  bell  on 
the  training  ship  giving  out  four  strokes  and  Susie  on  her  feet. 
"Four  bells,  Jack— what's  that?" 
And  the  man  still  reclining.    "Ten  o 'clock,  lass — why  ? " 
"  Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear,  I  ought  to  be  at  home." 
"Soon,"  came  the  deeper  voice  as  Jack  stood  now  and  drew 
her  to  him,  "soon  you'll  have  no  home  but  mine.     God  love 
you!    Yes,  I  know.    It's  my  fault.     Come." 


CHAPTER  V 

AND  PLAYS  HER  HAND 

"i 

A  KISS  for  watchfulness,  a  kiss  for  guardianship,  a  kiss 
for  remembrance — these  were  the  seals  set  by  Elliott 
on  the  girl's  sweet  face  as  he  left  her  at  the  park  gates. 
She  was  late — what  did  it  matter?  She  had  Jack's  love. 
There  would  be  a  scene — well,  let  it  come.  She  could  face  it 
smiling  and  in  silence  at  the  thought  of  the  kisses.  Jack  loved 
another?  What  nonsense.  Had  it  not  all  been  explained. 
Was  he  not  even  now  on  his  way  to  the  vicar  to  arrange  for 
their  wedding? 

The  lightness  of  Susie's  step  as  she  skipped  up  the  street 
was  proof  of  her  serenity  at  this  moment;  but  before  she  had 
traversed  half  the  distance,  there  came  a  pause  so  sudden  that 
it  appeared  she  intended  to  return.  Still  she  did  not  return. 
She  halted,  shrinking  into  the  shadow  of  the  wall. 

There  are  some  figures  which  it  is  quite  impossible  to  mistake. 
In  twilight,  in  dusk  or  dwarfed  by  distance,  they  stand  out 
for  the  men  they  are.  Saunderson  was  one  of  this  type.  Tall, 
strong,  with  a  decided  walk  and  alert  pose,  the  man  was  rec- 
ognisable at  once — and  he  issued  now  from  George  Sutcliffe's 
cottage  to  stand  a  moment  gazing  down  the  street.  Whether 
he  saw  her  Susie  never  knew,  but  she  decided  at  once  that, 
if  he  came  towards  the  park,  she  must  meet  him.  She  was 
not  afraid  and  would  not  run  away.  She  would  meet  him. 
As  it  happened,  however,  the  big  man  did  not  come  towards 
her  but  moved  in  the  opposite  direction — perhaps,  as  the  girl 

48 


49 

smilingly  acknowledged,  to  the  bar  of  the  Southern  Trader. 
Susie  was  aware  of  the  attraction  lying  dormant  within  those 
walls,  and  at  the  moment  the  feeling  uppermost  in  her  mind 
was  one  of  thankfulness. 

The  man's  figure  being  presently  hidden  by  a  turn  of  the 
street,  Susie  resumed  her  way.  She  came  to  her  home  won- 
dering what  new  plotting  had  brought  Saunderson  there  at 
such  an  hour,  and  discovered  with  a  little  throb  of  anxiety 
that  the  windows  were  already  shuttered  for  the  night  and 
the  house  in  darkness. 

The  signs  were  ominous.  Coupled  with  Saunderson's 
recent  presence  they  suggested  trouble;  but  Susie  came  to  the 
steps  and  after  some  small  indecision,  knocked  boldly  for 
admittance.  Some  minutes  passed  in  silence,  then  came  the 
sound  of  shuffling  feet,  a  bolt  was  drawn,  and  Mrs.  Sutcliffe 
appeared  in  the  doorway. 

At  the  far  end  of  the  passage  Susie  discovered  a  lighted  lamp 
standing  on  the  kitchen  table.  Beside  it  a  Bible,  Mrs.  Sut- 
cliffe's  Bible,  open  and  placed  ostentatiously  in  view.  The 
girl  knew  by  experience  what  this  boded.  She  stepped  within 
and  attempted  to  pass.  Mrs.  Sutcliffe  blocked  the  way,  her 
face  giving  indications  of  the  question  which  presently  escaped 
her  thin,  harsh  lips: 

"Wheer  hev  you  bin?" 

"Out  for  a  walk." 

Mrs.  Sutcliffe  stood  quite  still.  She  lifted  her  eyes  to  the 
dim  ceiling  and  said:  "Haigh!  'Ow  long,  O  Lawd,  'ow 
long!" 

"You  make  home  so  pleasant  for  me,"  Susie  explained, 
"that  I  am  glad  to  be  away." 

She  attempted  to  pass  into  the  kitchen,  but  again  Mrs.  Sut- 
cliffe barred  the  way. 


5o  THE  ISSUE 

"Stand  back!"  she  cried,  "an'  tell  me  wheer  you've  bin, 
Miss  Pert."  Then,  as  Susie  refused  to  reply,  the  voice  fell 
once  more  into  the  dismal  and  canting  tones  so  familiar  in 
that  household,  "or,"  she  said,  "there's  no  need  fer  lies — 
fer  went  not  my  soul  wiv  thee?" 

There  was  an  ugly  gleam  in  the  woman's  eyes,  a  suggestion 
of  triumph,  and  Susie  instantly  decided  that  her  mother  had 
seen  her,  perhaps  watched  her  in  the  Spinney.  The  suspi- 
cion became  a  certainty  on  examination,  for  Mrs.  Sutcliffe's 
eyes  gave  her  away.  The  meanness  of  the  action  set  the  girl's 
pulses  tingling. 

"Your  soul!"  she  hazarded,  "I  don't  believe  you  have  one. 
It's  much  more  likely  you've  been  spying." 

The  retort  went  home,  and  Mrs.  Sutcliffe  acknowledged  it 
in  a  phrase.  "  A  guilty  consence,"  she  said,  "  needs  no  ekuser." 

"Which  is  the  reason  you  can't  look  me  in  the  face,  I  sup- 
pose?" 

"Don't  you  give  me  any  of  your  lip,  me  gell.  If  I  was 
'appening  to  pass  the  Spinney  an'  'card  voices  as  turned  me 
aside,  it  isn't  fer  you  to  say  I  were  spyin'.  Wot  were  you  doin' 
in  the  Spinney?" 

"I  was  talking  to  Jack." 

This  time  an  opening  appeared  and  Mrs.  Sutcliffe  speedily 
availed  herself  of  the  opportunity.  "Decent  gells  don't  lie 
in  young  men's  arms,"  she  gave  out  with  a  dreary  sneer. 

"I  am  engaged  to  Jack.  He  is  my  promised  husband — he 
has  a  right  to " 

"Any  one  seein'  you  would  a  said  'ee  were  your  'usband," 
Mrs.  Sutcliffe  interrupted  with  biting  emphasis,  "only  that 
p'raps  'ee  were  a  trifle  too  fond." 

Susie  turned  to  hide  her  face.  A  wave  of  anger  and  morti- 
fication swept  over  her.  "Oh,  Jack,  Jack.'"  she  cried.  Then 


AND  PLAYS  HER  HAND  51 

with  a  swift  acknowledgment  of  her  hurts:  "Let  me  pass, 
woman.  I  wish  to  go  to  my  room." 

"Your  room?"  came  the  reply,  satirically  twisted.  "Lawd! 
wheer's  that  ?  "  and  again  with  an  accent  which  admitted  of  no 
guesswork.  "Your  room?  You  hev  no  room.  There's  no 
room  'ere  for  the  likes  of  you." 

The  words  were  very  distinct,  the  inference  abominable, 
yet  Susie  scarcely  comprehended,  even  now,  the  length  to 
which  this  woman  was  prepared  to  go.  She  stood  as  one  too 
much  astonished  for  speech,  and  the  other  expatiated  on  the 
fact,  hammering  it  home. 

"You  don't  seem  to  understand,"  said  Mrs.  Sutcliffe,  her 
arms  thrust  out  in  explanation.  "I  say  you  'av  no  room.  I 
say  my  house  shall  not  be  contiminated  by  your  goin's  on  any 
longer.  I  say  that  unless  you  like  to  marry  Saunderson  I'll " 

"Oh,  you  dare  not — you  dare  not!"  Susie  cried  out.  "You 
know  it  isn't  true.  Let  mt  pass!" 

"I  know  wot  I  saw,  me  gell,"  came  grimly  from  the  thin  lips. 

"It  is  not  true,"  Susie  wailed.     "I  say  it  is  not  true." 

"The  face  of  the  Lawd  is  against  all  them  as  do  evil.  I 
will  'av  no  pawt  in  thy  wickedness,  saith  the  Lawd." 

"If  you  believe  that  you  will  let  me  pass.  I  swear  I  have 
done  no  wickedness.  Jack  is " 

"Keep  'is  name  out  of  it." 

"  We  are  to  be  married — it  is  impossible." 

"Married  are  you — well,  now  you  look  at  wot  I  say,  fer 
it's  the  lawst  word — see?"  She  ticked  off  the  points  on  her 
fingers;  speaking  acidly:  "You'll  give  me  your  promise  not 
to  see  that  man  again.  You'll  give  me  your  promise  to  throw 
'im  over.  You'll  give  me  your  promise  to  marry  Jim  Saunder- 
son, an',"  she  added  with  grim  accentuation,  "if  you  don't, 
out  you  go." 


$2  THE  ISSUE 

Susie  was  pale  now,  pale  with  strangely  drawn  eyes.  Her 
brain  took  in  what  was  expected  of  her  in  so  far  that  she  under- 
stood what  was  said;  but  beyond  that  it  refused  to  register. 
It  seemed  impossible  to  believe  that  the  woman  meant  precisely 
what  she  said.  It  seemed  impossible  that  any  one  would  carry 
out  threats  so  irrational  and  in  the  face  of  such  flimsy  evidence. 
To  turn  a  young  girl  from  her  home  at  any  hour  and  for  any 
reason  is  monstrous,  but  at  night  it  is  criminal.  Susie  refused 
to  believe  in  this  nightmare.  She  had  come  home  prepared 
for  trouble,  but  scarcely  for  this;  she  had  come  home  perhaps 
a  little  defiant,  but  she  had  not  dreamed  of  this.  She  had 
spoken  hastily.  It  was  a  mistake.  She  turned  to  her  step- 
mother to  acknowledge  it.  "I  am  sorry  I  have  angered 
you  and  kept  you  up,"  she  said.  "I  did  not  mean  to. 
I  forgot  the  time.  Jack  has  had  some  luck  and  we  had  to 
discuss " 

"I'm  waitin'  fer  that  promise  I  spoke  of,"  the  cold  voice 
interrupted.  "Give  it,  or " 

"I  can't  give  it.  Could  you  give  it  if  you  were  in  my 
place?" 

"That's  not  the  point." 

"I  know  it,  I  know  it,  and  I  know  too  that  it  is  impossible 
to  persuade  you  that  I  have  done  no  wrong.  But,"  Susie  went 
on  determined  to  give  no  further  loophole,  "but  for  dad's 
sake,  don't  let  this  go  any  farther.  Let  it  drop.  It  would 
kill  him  to  hear  such  talk — and  it  isn't  true.  I  swear  it.  Look! 
I  will  go  on  my  knees  to  you.  I  will  beg  you  to  let  me  stay  if 
you  wish.  Oh,  for  God's  sake  listen — I  will  do  anything — 
anything  but  marry  Saunderson.  I  can't  marry  him.  Mother ! 
I  will  do  anything  except  that.  Only  let  me  stay.  Don't  turn 
me  into  the  streets!" 

Susie  fell  on  her  knees  at  the  word  but  Mrs.  Sutcliffe  shook 


AND  PLAYS  HER  HAND  53 

her  off.  "Don't  call  me  mother!"  she  cried  harshly,  "or  go 
on  yer  knees  to  me.  Kneel  to  yer  Maker.  Gawd  knows  I 
wouldn't  be  yer  mother  for  all  the  gold  in  the  Indies.  Keep 
yer  'ands  off!" 

Susie  rose  like  one  suddenly  lashed  on  the  face.  She  was 
stung  now  beyond  endurance.  She  would  beg  no  longer. 
She  would  fight,  there  was  no  other  way  left.  A  new  scorn 
rang  in  her  voice  when  next  she  spoke. 

"If  you  had  been  my  mother,"  she  said  swiftly,  "I  should 
have  died  when  I  was  a  baby.  Children  can't  live  on  texts. 
Let  me  pass." 

"Stand  back!"  Mrs.  Sutcliffe  enjoined,  her  voice  ringing 
angrily  in  the  narrow  passage.  "I  won't  be  insulted  in  my 
own  'ouse." 

"Your  house!  My  father's  house  you  mean.  Oh,  if  he 
were  at  home — if  he  were  at  home!" 

"Father ! "  Mrs.  Sutcliffe  shrieked.  "Aye,  if  I'd  'ad  my  way 
wi'  you,  me  gell,  it  isn't  the  Spinney  you'd  a  bin  in,  but  the 
Lawd's  'Ouse,  if  I'd  'ad  to  chain  you  to  me  wrist  to  drag  you 
there." 

She  shook  her  fist  menacingly  in  Susie's  face,  but  the  girl 
was  accustomed  to  vagaries  of  this  kind  and  did  not  flinch. 
She  faced  her  enemy  with  pale  cheeks  and  gave  back  blow  for 
blow. 

"A  lot  of  good  your  chapel  has  done  you!"  she  countered 
swiftly.  "Where  is  your  charity  or  love  or  forgiveness? 
Where  are  any  of  the  things  you  hear  of  from  squawking 
ministers  at  your  chapel?" 

"Hold  your  tongue,  miss." 

"I  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind.  You  are  so  fond  of  your 
godliness.  You  snivel  and  whine  all  day  of  it.  You  are  for 
ever  quoting  texts  about  love  and  forgiveness,  but  because  I 


54  THE  ISSUE 

am  late  you  threaten  to  turn  me  into  the  streets.  You  think 
you  are  just.  You  pride  yourself  on  your  judgment,  but  I 
tell  you  your  chapel  creeping  has  made  you  a  hypocrite — 
nothing  less." 

"Chapel  creeping?" 

Mrs.  Sutcliffe  was  strangely  quiet  now.  Her  lips  were 
drawn  in  a  thin,  bloodless  line.  "Have  you  done,  miss?" 
she  asked. 

"I  have  not.  You  aren't  used  to  hearing  the  truth,  so  for 
once  you  shall  have  it. 

"You  go  about  with  a  sniff  of  contempt  for  your  less  for- 
tunate sisters.  You  ferret  out  lies  about  them  and  repeat 
them  in  your  chapel  doors.  If  a  girl  goes  wrong  it  is  you  and 
your  friends  who  have  driven  her  to  it.  When  she  walks  into 
the  river  you  hold  your  noses  high  and  say,  'Thank  Gawd  I'm 
not  as  she  is.'  Oh,  you  are  very  consistent  in  your  godliness — 
but  it  is  the  men  who  fetch  her  out — the  men  who  don't  go  to 
chapel. 

"No,  there  can  be  nothing  between  us  now,  only  enmity. 
You  have  hated  me  always,  because  I  am  father's  child.  Now 
I  hate  you  and  if  I  am  to  go  into  the  streets  you  will  have  to 
put  me  there.  Stand  back — I  will  pass." 

She  paused  breathless  and  strove  to  force  her  way  in.  But 
the  woman  was  strong  and  energetic.  Her  eyes  narrowed. 
She  had  forgotten  her  quotations,  forgotten  her  husband,  for- 
gotten the  cause  of  the  controversy.  She  stood  to  "fight  for 
the  sanctity  of  her  home,"  and  for  her  own  mastery  therein. 
"Back  yerself!"  she  shouted  and  in  a  moment  Susie  was 
caught  and  thrown  against  the  wall  with  a  stinging  slap 
in  the  face.  The  girl  reeled,  fighting  blindly.  Her  foot 
slipped.  Then  Mrs.  Sutcliffe  took  her  by  the  shoulders  and 
hrust  her  out. 


AND  PLAYS  HER  HAND  55 

"Go!"  she  shouted  in  ungovernable  anger.  "Never  you 
dawken  these  doors  again.  Go!  Go  to  yer  lover." 

The  door  slammed.  There  was  a  noise  of  vicious  bolting 
and  barring,  then  silence  fell  once  more  on  the  old-world 
village  street. 


CHAPTER  VI 

SUSIE  REVOKES 

LIFE  is  like  a  game  of  whist.  To  all  of  us  when  we  come 
into  the  world  cards  are  dealt  and  Nature  stands  aside 
to  see  us  play  them.  Sometimes  we  play  them  well, 
sometimes  we  play  them  ill.  Susie  had  scarcely  made  the  best 
use  of  her  hand  and  now  she  stood  in  the  street  at  a  time  which 
roysterers  from  the  Southern  Trader  and  other  hells  consider 
their  own. 

The  stars  looked  down  upon  her  in  the  stillness  awaiting 
the  card  she  would  play. 

Never  before  had  the  village  seemed  so  inquisitive;  never 
before  had  the  old  home  appeared  so  full  of  insidious  laughter. 
The  windows  across  the  way  were  peopled  with  prying  eyes, 
the  lamps  winked  behind  masks  imperturbably  grave  of  mien; 
the  little  alley  down  there  by  the  garden  sheltered  countless 
peeping  Toms. 

Susie  looked  up  at  the  forlorn  house  she  had  known  hitherto 
as  a  certain  refuge  and  saw  that  the  passage  was  dark.  The 
sounds  of  housewifely  care  filtered  through  the  walls.  Mrs. 
Sutcliffe  was  locking  up,  closing  her  Bible,  and  turning  out 
the  lights.  Susie  remembered  that  presently  the  stern  creation 
who  had  stood  so  long  in  her  mother's  stead,  would  ascend 
the  stairs,  disrobe,  and  kneel — kneel  to  beseech  God's  care  for 
the  ensuing  hours,  God's  direction  for  future  works,  God's 
approbation  for  past  deeds ;  and  the  knowledge  gave  additional 
point  to  the  anguish  she  endured.  The  irony  of  it!  The 

56 


SUSIE  REVOKES  57 

mockery!  It  stung  the  girl  to  action  and  she  threw  herself 
upon  the  door,  beating  piteously  with  her  hands.  But  no  soft 
voice  nor  forgiving  word  came  in  answer  to  her  supplication. 
She  moved  to  the  window  and  strove  to  loosen  the  catch.  She 
stooped  and  found  a  stone  with  which  to  batter  it,  and  again 
stood  still.  For  down  the  street  came  a  guest  of  the  Southern 
Trader,  ribald  and  stumbling  under  the  weight  of  the  liquor 
he  had  consumed.  He  sang  noisily  with  a  tongue  that  hyphened 
his  words: 

"We  won-go-'ome  till  marnen — 
We-won-go'ome  till  mar-ner-ing — 
We-won-go-'ome,  hie,  till  mar-ner-ing ! 
Before  the  br-eake-a-daysh." 

Susie  hastened  to  the  porch,  searching  the  narrow  yard  for 
sanctuary.  She  was  still  now  and  very  pale.  She  decided  that 
she  must  not  be  seen  by  this  songster.  With  swift  intuition 
she  acknowledged  that  if  he  met  her  there  would  be  further 
trouble.  She  had  no  desire  for  further  trouble,  especially  of 
the  sort  that  promised.  Yet  how  was  she  to  escape  ? 

The  man  approached  in  stumbling  solemnity.  The  pave- 
ment was  too  narrow  to  give  him  foot  room.  The  road  be- 
came part  of  the  scheme  developed  to  wreck  him.  He  strutted 
there  in  the  dim  light,  as  destiny  ordering  events,  and  again 
broke  into  song,  a  ribald,  hateful  thing  born  of  the  cups  from 
which  he  had  been  driven  by  a  publican  tardily  acknowledging 
that  even  he  had  duties.  It  was  "The  Chaffinch"  who  faced 
Susie  at  this  hour,  a  man  with  whom  no  woman  in  that  village 
wantonly  attempted  a  passage  of  arms. 

To-morrow,  if  he  espied  the  girl,  all  Abbeyville  would  be 
listening  with  bated  breath  to  the  history  of  his  amazing  con- 
quest. To-morrow,  if  this  thing  chanced,  she  would  be  ana- 
thema— outcast;  one  over  whom  the  village  would  wag  its 
head  suggesting  the  unutterable. 


S8  THE  ISSUE 

Susie  decided  that  she  could  not  risk  this  new  peril,  and  with 
the  decision  came  action.  She  opened  the  gate  and  in  a  moment 
was  flying  like  a  shadow  towards  the  park.  The  man  saw  her 
and  commanded  her  to  wait.  Endearing  adjectives  took  the 
place  of  that  ribald  song,  he  clamoured  for  her  company  and 
the  noise  he  made  gave  a  new  incentive  to  flight.  Susie  turned 
up  the  lane  leading  from  the  river,  where  an  hour  ago  she  had 
parted  with  Jack.  She  held  a  hand  now  in  which  there  were 
no  trumps,  in  which  there  were  no  kings,  no  aces,  no  queens — 
only  the  rank  and  file  brandishing  red  and  black  pips.  And 
the  stars  looked  down  upon  her  awaiting  the  card  she  would 
play. 

Slave  Alley  is  the  name  of  the  avenue  through  which  Susie 
passed  on  this  night,  and  in  the  years  of  Britain's  travail  the 
Romans  drove  their  captives  down  its  length  to  the  galleys 
lying  out  there  where  the  Bluebell  hugged  the  mooring  posts, 
waiting  to  go  on  the  ways.  Above  them  towered  the  hill  which 
gave  them  shelter,  Galley  Hill,  the  place  where  perchance 
Susie  might  obtain  succour  and  towards  which  at  the  moment 
she  moved. 

Midway  to  the  top  of  the  slope  she  paused  for  breath.  Not 
a  sound  marred  the  exquisite  night.  The  solitary  lamp  at  the 
end  of  the  road  burned  without  flickering.  The  leaves  drew 
patterns  in  the  white  at  her  feet.  It  was  lonely,  still.  All  the 
quiet  country  folk  were  in  bed  and  only  such  stray  revellers  as 
the  man  down  there  were  abroad. 

A  noise  assailed  the  girl's  ears.  She  leaned  forward  and 
discovered  the  form  of  her  pursuer  dark  among  the  shadows. 

Again  she  searched  for  a  hiding  place,  a  place  wherein  she 
could  pause  and  gain  time  for  thought;  but  the  walls  ran 
straight  and  high,  harbourless  on  either  hand.  Susie  waited 
no  longer.  She  hastened  to  the  high  road  which  crossed  at 


SUSIE  REVOKES  59 

right  angles  the  way  she  had  come.  Five  or  six  miles  in  either 
direction  would  see  her  in  the  streets  of  a  town — and,  as  a 
matter  of  detail,  it  would  be  perhaps  one  o'clock.  On  the 
left,  two  miles  from  where  she  paused,  the  vicarage  lights 
flickered  advising  her  the  family  were  not  yet  in  bed,  but  to 
reach  it  she  must  run  the  gauntlet  of  Galley  Hill.  Before 
her,  winding  across  the  fields,  was  the  villager's  track  to 
Northdean,  a  little  hamlet  nestling  on  the  edge  of  Shorncombe 
woods. 

Jack  lived  at  Northdean.  In  less  than  ten  minutes  she  could 
be  at  his  side  and  safety  would  take  the  place  of  danger,  rest  of 
unrest,  love  of  hatefulness.  She  sank  down  on  the  grass  at 
the  roadside  struggling  to  think  coherently. 

The  tall  trees  threw  their  shadows  across  her,  whispering 
in  the  breeze  which  claimed  the  hilltop.  At  the  foot  of  the 
Alley  she  could  see  the  river  dotted  with  lights  and  quivering 
reflections,  here  a  red  gleam,  there  a  green,  here  a  cluster  all 
white,  there  a  space  unlighted. 

It  was  Jack's  river,  her  river — the  river  she  had  watched 
and  loved  from  childhood.  Childhood?  Ah,  that  was  gone. 
Gone  with  the  loss  of  her  home.  Gone  with  the  stigma  which 
would  now  so  inevitably  fall  upon  her.  In  the  eyes  of  that 
narrow  village  world  she  would  be  degraded,  a  hussy  steeped 
in  sin.  To-morrow  her  stepmother's  tongue  would  have 
magnified  her  foolishness  beyond  palliation;  to-morrow  the 
idiot  village  would  roll  its  head  at  her,  tongue  in  cheek;  to- 
morrow, if  she  did  not  act  now,  she  would  find  herself  cut  off 
from  hope.  There  was  but  one  solution  to  it  all.  She  must 
go  to  Jack.  She  had  no  home.  She  must  ask  Jack  to  give  her 
one.  They  must  be  married  at  once.  She  must  give  up  that 
notion  she  had  desired  and  face  the  registry  office — otherwise 
she  would  be  outcast;  a  person  at  which  dreary  Christians 


6o  THE  ISSUE 

sneer;  an  object  for  the  pity  of  missions  and  societies  which 
reclaim. 

She  must  go  to  Jack.  If  she  did  not  go  to  Jack,  she  told 
herself  that  all  these  things  must  come  to  her.  She  was  driven 
— driven  by  some  power  over  which  she  had  no  control.  Oh! 
if  her  father  had  been  at  home,  or  she  had  been  with  him — 
useless,  worse  than  useless,  for  then  this  had  not  happened. 
The  futility  of  the  "might  have  beens"  struck  her  and  she 
writhed.  Her  thoughts  became  a  burden.  The  solitude  un- 
bearable. 

She  rose  at  once  and  keeping  in  the  shadow  of  the  hedgerow 
fled  swiftly  on  till  the  cottages  stood  in  view.  A  flush  of  shame 
crimsoned  her  brow  here,  but  the  night  was  kind,  it  was  nearly 
twelve  o'clock  and  all  the  houses  dark. 

Jack's  window  alone  showed  a  faint  light.  Susie  hastened 
towards  it.  She  unlatched  the  gate  and  crossed  the  strip  of 
garden.  Every  nerve  hi  her  body  thrilled  now.  Her  face 
burned.  Her  eyes  took  a  strange,  soft  look.  She  peeped  in 
unheard. 

Jack  reclined  in  an  easy  chair  at  the  back  of  the  room  asleep. 
The  paper  he  had  been  reading  lay  on  the  floor,  his  pipe  had 
gone  out.  He  rested  there  in  quiet  content,  at  peace  with  all 
the  world  and  ignorant  of  the  anguish  she  endured. 

She  whispered  his  name.  He  slept  unmindful.  The  win- 
dow was  open,  the  sill  low — in  another  moment  Susie  had 
entered  the  room  and  fallen  on  her  knees  at  his  feet! 

"Jack!  Jack!    Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear!" 

She  buried  her  face  on  his  breast,  fondling  him  like  a  re- 
pentant child.  And  springing  suddenly  from  dreamland  he 
caught  her  to  him  whispering: 

"Susie— is  that  Susie?" 

"Who  else  could  it  be,  dear?" 


SUSIE  REVOKES  61 

Then  the  incongruity  of  the  situation  and  her  quaint  reply 
struck  her  and  she  leaned  in  his  arms  sobbing  pitifully. 

The  girl's  nerves  were  all  unstrung.  She  verged  at  that 
instant  on  the  hysteria  of  all  excitable  natures.  The  room 
was  stifling,  it  seemed  that  she  stood  in  danger  of  suffocation. 
She  sprang  to  her  feet  as  Jack  moved  away  to  find  water,  and 
fled  suddenly  into  the  garden. 

Elliott  managed  to  overtake  her  as  she  essayed  a  passage 
through  a  gap  in  the  hedge  across  the  way.  He  took  her  in 
his  arms  and  moved  firmly  towards  the  house.  But  she 
struggled  for  freedom. 

"Not  there,  not  in  there,"  she  begged  between  laughter  and 
tears.  "Stay  out.  It  is  cooler — and  I — I  must  tell  you." 

He  waited  in  silence  what  came,  his  strong  grip  and  quiet 
manner  soothing  her.  She  became  calm  under  his  influence. 

"What  is  it,  Susie?"  he  questioned  at  length.  "Tell  me 
what  has  gone  wrong." 

She  looked  up  smiling,  "Nothing,  Jack." 

"Nothing,  Susie?" 

"I — I  have  no  home,  dear — that's  all." 

"No  home?"  he  questioned  uncomprehending. 

"No  home,  Jack." 

"You  mean  they  have  turned  you  out?"  he  adventured, 
feeling  his  way  through  a  maze  of  guesses. 

"Mother  has." 

"Good  God!    What  for?" 

The  girl  broke  into  a  passion  of  tears.  "Because  she  hates 
me,"  she  wailed,  "and  because  I  was  late.  But  principally 
because  I  refused  to  give  you  up  and  marry  Saunderson." 

"Surely  you  can't  mean  it,"  he  objected.  Then  raging  up 
and  down  before  her:  "My  God!  come  with  me,  lass,  and  I'll 
see  you  safe  if  I  stave  the  walls  in.  Threw  you  out,  did  she? 


62  THE  ISSUE 

Your  mother  who  makes  such  a  song  of  her  religion.  Come, 
I'll  take  you  home.  There's  nothing  else  for  it." 

But  Susie  drew  back,  shaking  her  head.  "  I  can't  live  there," 
she  returned.  "I  am  a  coward  perhaps,  but  I  can't  face  her 
again." 

"Then  what  is  to  be  done?" 

Susie  reached  up  and  put  her  arms  about  his  neck — 

"I  must  stay  with  you,  Jack — and " 

"Here?"  he  questioned,  mindful  of  the  prying  eyes  which 
would  wake  with  daylight. 

"Anywhere,  anywhere — and  to-morrow  you  must  take  me 
to  aunt's  at  Swinfleet." 

He  held  her  close,  watching  the  leaping  colour.  One  hand 
discovered  a  way  to  smooth  the  soft  cheek  resting  so  near  his 
own.  Their  eyes  met,  a  restful  look  in  hers,  a  look  which 
shook  him  in  spite  of  the  anger  still  smouldering.  "No,"  he 
answered,  "it  can't  be  here,  Susie;  but  I  know  a  place  not  far 
off — where  I  can  take  you,  where  I  can  leave  you  if  you  wish  it — 
but " 

"Is  that  necessary?"  she  interposed  still  watching  him. 

He  caught  her  to  him  in  a  fierce  tumult  of  delight.  "No, 
it's  not  necessary.  You  are  mine  and  I  will  guard  you.  You 
are  mine — mine.  God  love  you,  sweet,  I'll  never  let  you  go." 

And  the  stars  looked  down  upon  them  as  they  moved  away. 
They  seemed  to  smile  at  the  cards  which  had  been  played. 


CHAPTER   VII 

THE  INQUISITOR 

AGAIN  it  was  night  and  again  these  two  passed  out  into 
coolness  to  find  that  sanctuary  of  which  Susie  had 
spoken.  Swinfleet  lay  some  miles  distant  and  the  farm 
was  farther  still,  but  they  were  going  thither  strong  in  the 
knowledge  that  Mrs.  Surridge  would  give  them  welcome. 

It  had  been  necessary  to  delay  till  darkness  had  set  in  for 
reasons  mainly  concerned  with  Elliott's  calling.  He  had  been 
out  all  day  thrashing  the  river,  towing  barges  and  berthing  a 
ship.  Also  he  had  been  to  the  registrar  to  discover  how  soon 
it  was  possible  to  "get  tied  up,"  and  that  official  had  informed 
him  of  the  necessary  notice.  To-morrow  was  Sunday  and  on 
Monday  and  the  two  following  days  he  would  be  down  river. 

Susie  smiled  when  these  delays  were  presented  for  her  in- 
spection. She  had  no  opinion  of  marriages  solemnised  in  an 
office  and  gave  the  matter  scant  attention. 

"The  banns  are  up,  Jack,"  she  decided  off  hand.  "We 
shall  be  asked  to-morrow.  A  day  or  two  will  make  no  dif- 
ference. I  am  content — aren't  you?" 

"Content!"  He  took  her  in  his  arms  and  the  smile  he  dis- 
covered seemed  to  suggest  that  she  found  the  answer  complete. 

Some  little  distance  outside  Northdean  the  country  is  an 
undulating  plain,  tilled,  divided,  and  without  roads.  It  is  a 
vast  garden  in  fact,  planted  with  strawberries,  currants,  goose- 
berries, and  hops.  Beyond  lies  Shorncombe  wood,  a  wide 
expanse  covered  with  trees,  bushes,  gorse,  and  bracken.  A 

63 


64  THE  ISSUE 

few  paths  cross  it,  and  amidst  the  trees,  where  the  farm  carts 
have  furrowed  a  passage,  these  are  easily  followed,  but  where 
the  foliage  is  denser  the  track  degenerates  into  a  mere  beaten 
footway,  difficult  to  find  even  in  daylight.  At  night  the  risk 
is  great,  of  course,  for  a  stranger,  but  Elliott  knew  the  land- 
marks, knew  them  for  part  of  that  great  playground  of  his  in 
which  he  had  learned  to  love. 

The  village  clock  was  striking  ten  when  they  passed  the  pond 
near  the  entrance  and  came  into  the  woods.  Outside  a  cool 
breeze  had  swept  across  the  fields,  but  within  the  sheltering 
trees  no  wind  stirred  and  the  air  was  warm  and  humid. 

Still  the  lovers  moved  on,  sometimes  in  quiet,  sometimes 
whispering  of  the  life  which  was  so  soon  to  begin,  which,  hi 
point  of  fact,  had  begun;  but  always  their  arms  were  inter- 
twined and  their  heads  bent  to  search  for  the  pitfalls  with  which 
the  way  abounded.  They  reached  at  length  a  gentle  slope 
which  led  them  to  a  small  clearing  near  the  centre  of  the  wood; 
a  space  peopled  only  by  the  oaks,  where  many  tracks  meet, 
diverge  and  wind  off  amidst  the  farther  undergrowth. 

Is  was  lighter  here.  The  trees  stood  well  apart  and  the 
stars  looked  down  upon  them.  And  as  the  two  paused  there 
the  sound  of  approaching  footsteps  fell  on  their  ears;  and  on 
looking  up  they  perceived  a  figure  moving  quickly  to  intercept 
them. 

A  woman,  tall,  slight,  and  dressed  wholly  in  black,  came  from 
the  shadows  holding  up  one  hand.  Her  face  showed  white 
against  the  trees;  her  hair,  too,  seemed  white;  but  as  she  drew 
near  they  saw  that  it  was  like  straw  in  colour.  She  halted  close 
beside  them  with  an  expression  of  thankfulness  which  was 
almost  painful  in  its  intensity. 

"Thank  God!"  she  cried.  "Thank  God  for  this.  I  feared 
I  was  doomed  to  wander  all  night.  It  is  dark  and  cold 


THE  INQUISITOR  65 

here,  and  I  am  very  weary.  Can  you  direct  me  to  Abbey- 
ville?" 

Jack  regarded  her  advent  with  some  asperity.  He  resented, 
not  unnaturally,  the  intrusion  of  a  second  care.  "To  Abbey- 
ville?"  he  questioned.  "It  isn't  easy.  It's  four  miles  from 
here  and  the  path  runs  anyhow." 

"But  you  can  point  it  out — surely  you  can  do  that." 

"Do  you  know  the  woods?" 

"I  see  them  to-night  for  the  first  time." 

"Then  it's  impossible,"  said  Jack. 

"Don't  say  that.    For  God's  sake  don't  say  that." 

"What  else  can  I  say?  There's  no  road,  only  a  track,  a 
dozen  tracks.  Why  you  might  wander  all  night  without  getting 
to  Abbeyville." 

"And  I  have  been  walking  now  since  dusk.  At  six  o'clock 
I  reached  the  little  village  over  there,  Swinfleet  they  call  it, 
and  had  a  cup  of  tea.  Then  I  started  to  cross  the  woods,  but 
a  dreadful  man  sprang  out  of  the  trees  and  in  avoiding  him  I 
lost  my  way.  He  was  naked.  Oh!  it  was  horrible." 

"Some  poor  devil  escaped  from  the  asylum,"  Elliott  sug- 
gested. "Well,  this  beats  all.  Here  are  we " 

Susie  crept  to  his  side,  interrupting  him  with  a  pathetic 
gesture;  "We  must  help  her,  dear.  We  can't  leave  her  here 
alone." 

"Short  of  going  back  a  couple  of  miles  there's  no  way  of 
doing  it,  lass." 

"Then  we  must  go  back.     I  am  not  a  bit  tired." 

"If  you  could  and  there  really  is  no  other  way,  it  would  be 
a  kindness,"  the  woman  acknowledged. 

"To  you,  yes;  but  to " 

"Nonsense,  Jack.    I  can  manage  it  easily." 

The  woman  came  close  beside  them  and  taking  Susie's  hand 


66  THE  ISSUE 

said:  "I  don't  know  who  your  are,  nor  do  I  ask.  But  you 
have  a  sweet  face  and  I  thank  you  from  my  heart.  And  I 
pray  that  when  you  have  reached  my  age  you  may  still  be 
beautiful  enough  to  hold  your  husband's  love.  What  am  I 
talking  of!  You  are  my  Good  Samaritans.  I  must  not  delay. 
Come." 

She  spoke  with  so  much  ease  and  appeared  so  weary,  down- 
cast, and  full  of  trouble,  that  Jack  relented  and  consented  to 
the  proposal.  They  turned  at  once  to  retrace  their  steps  and 
in  a  few  minutes  had  again  entered  the  solitude  from  which 
they  had  only  just  emerged.  But  they  walked  in  silence  until 
Susie,  finding  it  irksome,  ventured  a  question. 

"Do  you  know  Abbeyville?"  she  asked. 

"I  have  never  seen  it." 

"A  strange  time  to  choose  for  a  first  visit, "  Elliott  laughed. 

"Fate  makes  no  choice  of  time." 

"Fate?" 

"Love,  if  you  like  it  better." 

The  tone  sufficed.     The  trio  moved  again  in  silence. 

Down  the  path,  over  the  hill,  through  a  dense  mass  of  foliage 
where  they  were  compelled  to  stoop  and  hold  back  the  boughs 
to  force  a  passage;  round  bends  and  turns  until  at  length  they 
stood  on  the  verge  of  the  wood  and  the  remaining  distance 
could  be  indicated.  Here  Elliott  paused  to  give  the  necessary 
instructions  and  the  woman  held  out  her  hand. 

"I  spoke  brusquely  just  now,"  she  said.  "I  hope  you  will 
overlook  it.  I  have  my  reasons.  A  woman  turns  to  her 
sex  for  aid.  How  seldom  her  sex  aids  her  you  will  learn  with 
years.  But  you  have  been  good  to  me  and  I  wish  I  could  see 
you  again.  Still,  that  is  impossible;  no,  I  ask  no  questions,  nor 
do  I  give  any  confidences.  Good  bye — and  you,  dear,God 
bless  you  for  your  sympathy." 


THE  INQUISITOR  67 

/ 

She  marched  off  without  waiting  for  any  reply,  her  tall,  slim 
form  swaying  against  the  starlight.  It  appeared,  at  that  mo- 
ment, that  she  neither  cared  for  nor  heeded  the  fact  of  the 
additional  tramp  she  had  caused.  Unquestionably  she  had 
been  brusque. 

"Who  can  she  be,  Jack?"  Susie  questioned  as  they  moved 
forward. 

"God  knows.  Perhaps  another  lunatic — the  woods  often 
hold  them." 

"She  didn't  speak  like  one." 

"No,  but  she's  queer  for  all  that — and  she  has  given  us  a 
tidy  jaunt  for  nothing." 

"Still,  I  am  glad  we  helped  her,"  Susie  decided. 

"It  adds  another  four  miles  to  your  walk,  lass — four  and  six 
is  ten.  It's  too  much." 

"For  you,  dear?" 

"No,"  he  laughed;  "for  you." 

"Then  don't  think  of  it,  for  you  and  I  are  one." 

Again  they  entered  the  woods,  passed  the  clearing  and  came 
to  the  outskirts;  but  before  they  reached  it,  long  before  they 
drew  near  it,  Susie  began  to  lag.  The  way  was  so  difficult,  the 
path  rugged,  dark,  and  full  of  pitfalls.  When  at  length  they 
emerged  upon  the  road  the  moon  was  high,  the  night  calm, 
and  Susie  too  weary  for  words. 

They  came  to  a  little  dell  sheltered  from  the  breeze  and  Susie 
paused  to  look  upon  it.  "It  is  like  our  own  dear  Spinney," 
she  whispered,  "and  oh!  I  am  so  tired." 

"Then  rest  a  while,  Sweet.  God  knows  it  can  make  no 
difference  now."  He  half  carried  her  across  the  road  and 
brought  her  to  the  bank. 

"And  even  if  it  did,  Jack,  I  think  I  must,"  she  begged. 

He  stooped  to  clear  a  space,  then  spread  his  coat  upon  the 


68  THE  ISSUE 

leaves,  and  she  nestled  down  to  rest.    "I  am  so  tired,"  she 
smiled,  "I  think  I  could  sleep  for  ever." 

From  far  over  the  hills  there  came  the  shriek  of  an  early 
train,  the  birds  awoke,  looked  out,  and  saw  the  day  was  come. 
They  preened  their  wings,  fluttering  busily  in  the  soft  warm 
air.  The  land  was  silent.  The  lights  in  the  distant  village 
grew  dim,  paled,  and  died.  Smoke  rose  straight  from  a  score 
of  chimneys.  Swinfleet  was  awake,  and  out  there,  beyond, 
Mrs.  Surridge  bustled  about  the  farm  questioning  at  intervals 
what  had  happened  that  Susie  was  not  with  her. 


Part  H 
CDc  open  anD  Cfceft 


CHAPTER   I 

THE  MASTER 

RIVERTON  is  one  of  London's  outposts.  By  no 
stretch  of  imagination  could  one  call  it  beautiful  or 
picturesque  in  itself,  and  yet  it  has  a  beauty  such  as 
may  be  found  in  few  environments.  To  discover  it  one 
must  accept  the  river  as  part  of  it;  to  see  it  at  its  best  one 
must  choose  the  hour. 

At  sunrise  or  at  sunset,  when  the  Thames  rolls  swiftly  past 
the  jutting  piers  and  anchored  shipping,  when  the  red  sails  of 
tacking  barges  are  turning  mauve  or  purple;  when  the  giant 
liners  lying  out  there  in  mid-stream,  carry  a  tinge  of  flame 
about  their  rails  and  blue  on  their  sides;  when  the  hulks  and 
buoys  and  loading  colliers  are  all  bathed  alike  in  that  heaven- 
flung  radiance,  and  the  houses  climbing  tier  above  tier  ashore 
seem  to  be  palaces  fashioned  in  the  kingdom  of  the  skies — then 
Riverton  is  beautiful;  beautiful  in  that  expressively  sorrowful 
way  which  is  one  of  England's  greatest  charms. 

But  if  you  take  the  streets  and  examine  them,  if  you  count 
the  number  of  gin  palaces  flaunting  brass  and  rank  humanity 
to  the  skies;  if  you  look  at  the  shops  which  are  dowdy,  the 
slums  which  are  abominable,  or  the  government  which  is  be- 

69 


70  THE  ISSUE 

yond  criticism,  then  you  find  a  town  of  the  old  style  made 
modern  without  improvement;  a  town  completely  and  over- 
whelmingly crushed  by  its  gigantic  neighbour  and  you  marvel 
at  the  opportunities  which  it  seems  are  lost  for  all  time. 

Still,  Riverton  has  docks,  piers,  forts,  sea-walls  and  a  garri- 
son. The  troops  sometimes  visit  the  churches,  bugles  are 
to  be  heard  and  the  red  or  khaki  uniform  is  in  evidence  always 
on  the  footways.  It  may  be  accepted,  therefore,  that  Riverton 
is  a  place  of  some  importance  in  this  fair  land  of  ours. 

Now  Wakeley  Dunscombe,  the  owner  of  the  Bluebell,  lived 
in  Riverton  and  grew  fat  on  the  provender  procurable  on  the 
broad  bosom  of  father  Thames.  He  was  one  of  the  men  who 
would  have  grown  fat  in  any  business  community.  He  had  a 
natural  facility  for  making  money  grow.  His  friends  spoke  of 
him  with  enthusiasm.  They  said  that  he  was  "an  indefatig- 
able business  man,"  by  which  term,  if  one  analyses  it,  they 
probably  wished  it  to  be  understood  that  he  was  a  money- 
spinner.  To  get  money  is,  of  course,  legitimate  either  in 
Riverton  or  elsewhere — the  thing  which  matters  is  the  means 
employed,  and  Dunscombe's  means  were  very  mean. 

Prosperity  shone  in  every  wrinkle  in  this  man's  face.  It 
shouted  from  his  diamond  bedizened  fingers  and  grew  pos- 
itively offensive  with  the  ponderous  chain  and  seals  dangling 
ostentatiously  across  his  waistcoat.  But  the  bank  people 
attended  his  wants  without  question  and  the  clergy  called. 

Among  his  men  Dunscombe  had  the  name  of  being  the 
hardest  master  on  all  the  river  side.  No  scheme  was  too  low, 
too  mean  or  too  sordid  for  him  to  finger,  provided  he  saw  his 
way  to  clear  a  profit.  His  skippers  were  selected  with  but  few 
exceptions  from  the  riff -raff  of  Thames  watermen,  and  he 
ground  them  in  the  mill  of  competition  without  remorse.  He 
looked  upon  his  "hands"  as  puppets  out  of  which  to  fashion 


THE  MASTER  71 

f 

wealth  as  speedily  and  economically  as  possible.  He  ruled 
them  with  a  rod  of  iron,  turned  them  adrift  on  the  smallest 
provocation,  and  had  earned  the  promised  vengeance  of  not  a 
few — a  state  of  affairs  in  which  he  rather  gloried. 

He  was  an  assertive,  entirely  self-made  man  of  slight  educa- 
tion and  boundless  energy.  A  man  of  small  stature,  with  quick 
eyes  and  a  colouring  which  betokened  the  admixture  of  Welsh 
blood  on  the  part  of  some  not  distant  ancestor.  But  of  this 
latter  Dunscombe  was  unaware.  Indeed  he  would  have  denied 
the  imputation  with  scorn,  for  he  prided  himself  particularly 
on  the  lack  of  a  genealogical  tree,  as  though  the  fact  that  he 
had  descended  from  someone  and  had  inherited  traits  as  well 
as  induced  them,  reflected  in  some  obscure  fashion  on  his  in- 
dividual success  and  made  it  less  his  own. 

His  house  was  characteristic  of  the  man.  He  designed  it, 
contracted  for  it,  and  built  it.  No  sufficiently  enterprising 
builder  could  be  found  to  undertake  the  work — on  Duns- 
combe's  terms.  It  was  large,  showy,  and  quite  original.  On 
the  ground  floor  it  blossomed  solemnly  as  a  Queen  Anne; 
higher,  it  sprouted  Gothic  excrescences  and  embrasures;  still 
higher,  red  brick  battlements  flourished  and  the  necessity  for 
something  in  the  middle  was  met  by  a  lighthouse.  From  the 
windows  of  this  structure  Dunscombe  commanded  a  view  of 
the  neighbouring  chimney-pots,  together  with  that  angle  of  the 
river  dominated  by  his  wharf.  From  this  eminence,  too,  he 
surveyed  the  swarming  hive  of  men,  and  pondered  on  the  means 
of  extracting  further  profits. 

Everything  about  the  house  proclaimed  the  man.  Every- 
thing spoke  of  the  theodolite  and  rule.  The  windows  wore  sym- 
metrical bibs  and  tuckers,  tied  individually  round  the  waist 
with  crisp  pink  ribbons,  as  though  they  were  children  expecting 
company.  The  doors  flashed  shiny  glances  at  their  duller 


72  THE  ISSUE 

neighbours  across  the  way;  and  the  resplendent  brass- work 
winked  like  a  yacht's  fittings. 

But  it  was  the  garden  that  Dunscombe  especially  loved  to 
trim  and  square  and  rule  out  of  all  decency.  Here  the  angles, 
triangles,  and  octagons  were  positively  indecorous.  Nothing 
could  well  be  bolder  than  the  iron  border  around  the  beds,  ex- 
cept, perhaps,  the  filagree  fence  that  hemmed  the  lawn.  Noth- 
ing could  well  be  more  shameless  than  the  box-tree  stork  that 
sat  in  a  garden  nest  looking  for  chicks  which  never  came;  except, 
perhaps,  the  puffy  rotundities  of  that  cherub,  dancing  wantonly 
beside  plaster  lions  grinning  ferocity  on  either  side  the  steps. 

The  diamond-shaped  beds  were  filled  with  foliage  plants 
arranged  in  a  diamond-shaped  pattern.  The  trees  were  shaved 
as  though  their  master  were  a  barber  and  exhibited  them  as  his 
sign.  In  the  centre  of  an  iron-bound  fountain,  a  shivering 
Venus  stood  waiting  for  the  water  which  never  flowed.  The 
plants  were  all  of  one  height  and  one  circumference.  Individ- 
ual excrescences  were  promptly  nipped  in  the  bud;  it  appeared 
as  though  the  trees  and  shrubs  had,  by  long  training,  become 
imbued  with  a  sense  of  their  own  insignificance,  and  had  agreed 
to  suffer  effacement  before  the  preponderating  egoism  of  the 
Master. 

Adjoining  the  house  and  overlooking  the  garden  where  Venus 
shivered  eternally,  was  a  small  study  which  Dunscombe  used 
often  as  an  office;  for,  even  his  home  was  not  sacred  from  the 
business  of  money-getting.  Here  he  frequently  saw  those 
"Captains"  of  his,  whose  arrival  he  had  witnessed  from  the 
lighthouse,  after  the  office  was  closed.  And  it  was  here  that 
Dunscombe  sat  one  evening,  toasting  his  toes  over  a  glowing 
fire,  and  pondering  jovially  on  the  triumph  of  "individual  talent " 
when  set  in  opposition  to  the  narrower  possibilities  of  more 
honourable  firms. 


THE  MASTER  73 

A  letter  had  just  reached  him  from  the  owners  of  the  steamer 
which  had  collided  with  the  Bluebell.  It  was  a  comforting 
letter,  containing  the  offer  of  a  compromise,  forwarded  through 
his  solicitor.  An  offer  worth  accepting,  for  Dunscombe  knew 
that  fifty  pounds  judiciously  spent,  would  make  the  Bluebell 
every  whit  as  seaworthy  as  she  had  been  before — which,  per- 
haps, is  not  very  high  praise. 

The  compromise  was  for  three  times  that  amount,  and  no 
law  worries.  Dunscombe's  mouth  watered  as  he  sat  there 
thinking  his  thoughts  in  silence,  and  a  smile  of  infinite  com- 
placency lingered  on  his  face.  Once  more,  to  use  his  own 
phrase,  had  he  crept  to  windward  and  won.  Once  more  the 
Bluebell  would  shine  and  be  the  pride  and  envy  of  all  the  fleet 
at  no  expense  to  himself.  True,  a  man  had  been  drowned  in 
the  collision,  and  a  broken-hearted  woman  with  four  hungry 
brats  had  wept  loudly  in  the  hall;  but  that  had  been  the  skip- 
per's fault,  not  his:  an  accident  in  the  game,  which  the  hands 
must  learn  to  take — with  their  pay.  On  the  whole,  the  affair 
might  have  been  worse;  and  if  Saunderson  had  been  less  of  a 
fool,  he  might  have  stayed  on — but  .  .  .  The  man's  jaws 
snapped  like  a  gin,  and  he  had  mentally  decided  to  write  to  his 
solicitors  bidding  them  accept,  when  a  maid  entered  to  an- 
nounce one  of  the  men. 

"Who  is  it?" 

"Captain  Saunderson,  sir." 

"Saunderson,  eh?    Show  him  in." 

Now  Saunderson  had  been  much  in  Dunscombe's  thoughts  for 
some  time  past.  In  addition  to  the  matter  of  reckless  navigation 
it  had  come  to  the  master's  ears  that  this  zealous  servitor  of  his 
was  promulgating  a  strike  among  the  hands;  that  he  was  the 
leading  spirit  in  the  strike  now  in  progress  at  a  certain  cement 
factory,  close  at  hand,  which  had  caused  him  considerable  loss. 


74  THE  ISSUE 

To  touch  Dunscombe  thus  was  identical  with  flicking  a  horse 
on  a  raw.  It  made  him  kick  out  with  curious  indiscretion,  an 
effect  probably  of  the  lack  of  educative  self-control. 

The  man  moved  heavily  into  the  room  and  stood  twisting  his 
cap  in  his  hands.  There  was  a  cut  across  his  forehead,  and  the 
back  of  his  head  was  bound  with  strips  of  plaster.  He  was  not 
pretty  to  look  at,  and  Dunscombe  eyed  him  sharply. 

"Well,  Saunderson,  what's  come  to  you?"  he  cried.  "Been 
fighting?" 

"No,  sir.  It's  in  yon  huffle  I  got  it.  There's  a  bad  sea  on, 
an'  her  gear's  all  to  Jiminy;  it's  likely  a  block  swingin'  loose 
cut  me  a  snick. " 

"Oh." 

There  was  a  peculiar  inflection  in  Dunscombe's  voice.  He 
knew  from  long  experience  with  what  diffidence  a  Thames 
skipper  speaks  the  truth,  and  took  this  opportunity  of  showing 
it.  Saunderson  squirmed  where  he  stood.  "Sir,"  he  cried 
hotly;  "them  as  say  otherwise,  lies.  I'm  standin'  on  the  tug's 
deck;  we  are  close  under  her  bows  an'  the  derelict's  jumpin* 
crewl.  What  hit  me  I  don't  know;  but  it's  somethin'  flyin' 
loose." 

"I  thought  there  was  a  difficulty  about  getting  very  near?" 
said  Dunscombe  quietly. 

Saunderson  stared;  the  pulse  in  his  forehead  throbbed  omi- 
nously. "It's  a  lie,  Guv'nor!"  he  shouted. 

" Silence,  man;  don't  rave  at  me. " 

"It  ain't  easy  to  keep  quiet  when  lies  are  slung  at  you,"  said 
Saunderson  more  soberly;  "and,  if  every  one  had  his  doo,"  he 
continued  with  the  intention  of  dispelling  the  bad  impression 
he  had  made,  "there's  no  two  ways  about  it,  the  Stormy  Petrel 
would  get  a  change  of  masters. " 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?" 


THE  MASTER  75 

"It  might  pay  you  to  shift  skippers,  Guv'nor — that's  my 
meaning. " 

"Speak  out,  man;  don't  hint  at  things.  If  you  have  any- 
thing against  Elliott,  let  me  hear  it. " 

Saunderson  snapped  his  fingers  with  an  affectation  of  indif- 
ference. "For  that  matter,"  he  said,  "I've  nothing  against 
Jack  Elliott — he's  as  good  a  man  as  here  or  there  another. 
But,  he's  got  no  principle — that's  what  I  look  at.  A  man  that 
has  no  principle  ain't  any  sort  of  man.  What  would  you  say 
to  a  chap  that  did  a  'little  bit  on  his  own,'  when  he's  bound 
to  give  account  for  all  he  earns?  It  ain't  fair  doos,  sir.  It's 
possible  to  do  a  good  bit  on  your  own,  if  you  do  it  judicious. " 

"I  suppose  it  is,"  said  Dunscombe  quietly;  "most  masters 
have  to  put  up  with  robbery  in  one  form  or  another. " 

"Aye,  sir;  maybe  that's  true.  But  when  there's  honest 
hands  why  keep  dishonest  ?  It's  no  sort  of  encouragement  for 
the  honest  sort — now,  is  it  ?  Tell  me,  sir,  when  did  the  towing 
of  the  Tantalus,  Captain  George  Sutcliffe,  come  into  your 
accounts?  If  you  can  tell  me  that  I've  done.  Say  I  know 
nothing  about  it,  an'  you  won't  be  far  out. " 

Dunscombe  looked  up  at  the  sound  of  this  man's  accusation, 
but  he  had  no  intention  of  bandying  unnecessary  words. 

"How  long  ago ? "  he  questioned. 

"Ten  days  last  Friday." 

"Where?" 

"Offthejenkin." 

"How  do  you  know?" 

"I'm  coming  through  the  Swatch  wiv  the  Deerstalker  and 
see  it. " 

Dunscombe  turned  quietly  to  his  desk.  "I  remember,"  he 
said,  "I  have  an  account  of  it." 

Saunderson's  air  of  certitude  deserted  him;  he  was  completely 


76  THE  ISSUE 

thrown  off  his  guard.  "Then  Jack  Elliott's  a  liar, "  he  articu- 
lated. "Why  he  told  the  old  man  there  would  be  no 
charge.  Said  he'd  take  five  shillin's  to  settle  the  job.  I  heard 
him." 

"I  know  nothing  of  that." 

The  two  men  remained  in  silence  for  some  minutes,  Saunder- 
son  uncomfortably  twirling  his  cap,  Dunscombe  leaning  back 
in  his  chair  and  eyeing  him  with  a  shrewd  stare. 

"Well,"  he  remarked  at  length,  "is  that  all  you  have  against 
Elliott?" 

"Most  masters  would  think  it  enough. " 

"That  is  nothing  to  me." 

The  man  was  nonplussed.  He  did  not  like  Dunscombe's 
quiet  manner.  It  would  have  been  more  comfortable  to  hear 
him  swear.  There  was  something  behind  all  this  that  he 
could  not  fathom,  for  Dunscombe,  as  a  rule,  was  not  chary 
about  receiving  information.  Besides,  Saunderson  was  con- 
scious that  in  his  hatred  of  Elliott,  he  had  allowed  his  tongue  to 
run  away  with  him;  the  incident  had  grown  in  the  telling. 

"If  that  is  all  you  have  to  say  we  may  as  well  come  back  to 
business. "  Dunscombe's  voice  fell  sharply  on  the  man's  ears 
as  he  leaned  forward,  searching  for  a  paper.  "For  instance," 
he  continued  suavely,  "what  about  this  collision  of  yours. 
'Caspian  v.  Blttebell,'  "  he  quoted  from  a  document  he  held. 

"What  about  it,  sir?" 

"I  am  not  satisfied  with  your  statements  on  the  subject. 
How  is  it  that  you  were  not  on  deck  yourself  ?  " 

"  Sir,  I've  just  gone  below  for  a  wash.  A  man  can't  always 
be  on  deck. " 

"You  brought  up  at  Thames  Haven:  what  were  you  doing  at 
the  Golden  Crown  all  the  flood  before  you  came  up  ?  " 

"I  went  ashore  to  get  some  tommy.    We're  clean  out  of  grub 


THE  MASTER  77 

an'  when  I  come  back  the  boat's  got  a  hole  knocked  in  her. 
What  can  I  do  ?  I  must  mend  her  so  as  she'll  swim. " 

"Is  that  a  true  bill,  Saunderson?" 

The  man  had  been  drinking  and  again  showed  signs  of  it. 
"Lumme!"  he  blurted  in  desperation,  "if  it  ain't  the  truth  it's 
a  lie.  How'll  that  do?" 

"It  is  a  lie." 

"All  right;  say  it's  a  lie.    What  then,  Mr.  Dunscombe?" 

"You  were  drunk,  my  lad." 

"I  was  no  more  drunk,"  he  shouted  in  blustering  consterna- 
tion at  being  confronted  with  the  truth,  "than  you  are,  Guv'- 
nor." 

"Silence,  man." 

"Lumme!  I  won't  be  silent.  Who  told  you  that?  Where 
did  you  get  it  from?  Why,"  he  continued  with  one  of  those 
accessions  of  rage  to  which  he  was  given,  "from  Elliott.  That's 
where  you  got  it." 

"I  have  not  seen  Elliott,"  Dunscombe  returned  with  hard- 
ened accent. 

"Lie!"  cried  the  other.  "You  want  to  shield  Jack  Elliott. 
You  listen  to  him;  you  won't  listen  to  me.  By  Gawd!  I'll  be 
even  wiv  the  pair  of  you  yet.  S'elp  me,  if  I'm  not  even  wiv  you, 
may  I  drop  down  dead — rotten " 

He  plucked  fiercely  at  his  neckerchief  and  would  have  con- 
tinued, but  speech  was  denied  him.  In  an  access  of  ungovern- 
able rage  he  only  stuttered  inaudibly. 

Dunscombe  rose  to  his  feet  and  stood  confronting  him. 
"Silence!"  he  shouted.  "How  dare  you.  Get  out  of  my 
house.  I  will  have  nothing  further  to  do  with  you." 

They  stood  some  minutes  glaring  angrily  at  each  other;  then 
the  stern,  unbending  attitude  of  the  master,  and  the  inborn 
habit  of  obedience,  slovenly  and  ill-learned  as  it  was,  came 


78  THE  ISSUE 

to  Dunscombe's  aid.  The  man  turned  slowly  to  open  the 
door. 

"I'm  discharged?"  he  questioned  in  a  smaller  voice. 

"Yes." 

"  Right.  Then  I'll  have  to  look  for  another  bloke,  an'  there's 
an  end." 

He  walked  from  the  room,  but  almost  immediately  returned. 
"May  I  look  to  you,  sir,  for  a  character?"  he  questioned. 

"What  sort  of  character  can  I  give  you?"  Dunscombe 
sneered;  "I  hereby  certify  that  James  Saunderson  has  been 
captain  of  the  schooner  Bluebell  for  eighteen  months,  and  lost 
her  in  a  fit  of  drunkenness — something  of  that  sort,  eh?" 

Saunderson  stood  twirling  his  cap  in  sullen  apathy,  and  his 
master  resumed: 

"That  I  know  that  James  Saunderson  is  a  leading  member 
of  the  Union,  and  upholds  the  rights  of  the  workers  against  the 
masters.  I  might  add  that,  too,  eh,  Captain  ?  " 

"An'  haven't  the  men  some  rights?"  cried  Saunderson,  his 
anger  leaping  anew.  "Are  we  to  sit  still  an'  rot,  while  you 
trundle  around  in  the  carriage  our  work  has  got  you?" 

"You,  individually,  may  starve  and  be  damned.  With  the 
others  I  have  nothing  to  do." 

Saunderson  drew  breath  quickly.  He  stood  there,  gazing 
round  the  room  and  moving  his  neck  as  though  he  found  his 
collar  stifled  him.  "And  that's  all  you'll  do  for  me?"  he 
questioned. 

"I  have  nothing  further  to  say.    Leave  my  house." 

"Right." 

He  advanced  to  the  door,  opened  it,  and  turned  about. 
"Right,  Guv'nor,"  he  reiterated,  speaking  with  slow  emphasis, 
"but  there's  two  parties  in  every  raffle — it's  all  likely  you'll 
find  there's  two  in  this." 


THE  MASTER  79 

„•   • 

He  moved  from  the  room  and  found  his  way  into  the  street. 
He  felt  the  need  of  air.  It  seemed  to  him,  at  that  moment, 
that  already  the  curse  was  beginning  to  work.  He  thrust  out 
one  hand  questioning  if  this  were  so,  but  the  darkness  had  no 
answer  for  him.  It  rilled  in  the  streets  as  it  had  rilled  out  there 
where  the  trouble  had  arisen.  Smoke  twisted  in  the  streets, 
fog  had  twisted  on  the  river.  That  was  the  difference. 

But  to  Dunscombe  sitting  before  his  comfortable  fire  the 
case  presented  no  such  illusion.  He  was  in  no  way  flustered  by 
the  scene  from  which  he  had  emerged  triumphant.  He  was 
accustomed  to  the  silly  ebullitions  of  wrath  presented  gratis  by 
those  "hands"  he  was  compelled  to  discharge.  He  appre- 
ciated them  at  their  full  value.  "A  horse  swerves  when  he  is 
hit,"  he  decided,  "and  the  British  workman  swears.  The 
difference  is  not  worth  consideration." 

Still,  seeing  the  man  was  now  discharged  and  that  he  was 
obviously  ripe  for  mischief,  it  became  imperative  that  Duns- 
combe  should  at  once  accept  the  offered  compromise;  and  to 
do  this  it  was  necessary  to  obtain  a  document  from  the  wharf 
office  and  to  see  the  foreman.  When  that  was  done  he  could 
give  final  instructions  to  his  solicitor. 

An  hour  later,  therefore,  Dunscombe  rose  from  his  desk  and, 
wrapping  warmly  in  the  hall,  called  to  his  servants  that  he 
would  be  some  time  absent.  With  these  words  he  closed  the 
door  and  went  out. 


CHAPTER   II 
THE  SEA-WALL 

A  FOGGY  night,  the  streets  greasy,  the  air  thick  and 
torpid;  humanity  owning  homes  hastening  thither; 
humanity  lacking  anything  in  the  similitude  of  that 
Elysium  seeking  their  kennels,  the  gin  palaces  and  the 
arches.  In  the  arches  carts  are  sometimes  found,  tail 
boards  which  shall  form  a  roof,  straw  wherein  mankind  may 
lie  and  brood  or  breed  as  seems  him  best.  It  is  one  of  the 
laws  from  which  Authority  tells  us  there  is  no  escape.  But 
in  Riverton  as  elsewhere  Authority  is  frequently  found  in 
the  hands  of  men  of  Dunscombe-like  proclivities — and,  well 
perhaps  it  is  immaterial  what  happens  in  the  gutter. 

A  dull  and  foggy  night  lay  over  the  town,  and  the  town 
sweltered  in  it,  sending  heavenward  a  glare  of  yellow  light  as 
from  the  door  of  an  open  furnace.  Clangs  rose  up  in  the  still- 
ness, the  jar  of  wheels,  and  down  there  at  the  foot  of  the  High 
Street  the  wail  of  steamers  passing  up  Reach.  Mankind  too 
shuffled  hither  and  thither  in  the  gloom — Saunderson  among 
them;  Dunscombe,  walking  briskly  riverward,  and  some  mal- 
contents, offshoots  of  the  strike  dragging  its  slow  length  over  a 
neighbouring  townlet,  and  with  them  several  of  Dunscombe's 
discharged  hands. 

A  somewhat  sottish  company,  on  the  whole,  seeking  on  a 
sodden  night  some  means  of  passing  the  hours,  perhaps  of 
losing  them. 

One  leaning  against  the  brass  railing-  of  the  Scorpion  moved 

80 


THE  SEA-WALL  81 

*• 

forward  as  Dunscombe  came  past  but  the  master  did  not  see 
him.  He  was  busy  with  his  plans,  immersed  in  the  cares  of 
that  business  which  had  lifted  him  so  high  among  the  towns- 
people. The  Scorpion's  lamps  were  of  the  attractive  order, 
bright  and  staring,  as  though  mankind,  like  the  moth,  was  to  be 
cajoled  into  burning  its  wings.  The  light  shone  on  this  loung- 
ing man.  His  wings  had  been  singed  by  its  power.  It  shad- 
owed the  movements  he  made,  brought  out  the  fact  that  he  was 
clothed  in  rags  and  that  one  arm  dangled  miserably  as  from  a 
sling.  But  it  was  not  slung.  There  were  days  when  this  had 
been  the  case — days  of  long  ago,  before  the  man  had  become  the 
sottish  lout  revealed  by  that  appalling  glare. 

Dunscombe  passed  on.  Walking  briskly  he  came  to  the 
meadow-land  at  the  end  of  the  road  and  entered  the  paths 
leading  to  the  river.  The  singed  man  followed  him,  swearing. 
Dunscombe  paused  to  stare  at  the  water;  the  man  who  fol- 
lowed halted  also. 

The  fog  out  there  was  cleaner  than  the  fog  in  the  town.  It 
was  whiter,  but,  for  the  shipping,  more  insidious.  It  was 
sufficiently  thick  to  blanket  the  lights  along  shore,  sufficiently 
clear  to  make  the  risk  of  continuing  under  steam  not  wholly 
impossible,  and  Dunscombe  had  pangs  as  he  thought  of  his 
scattered  fleet.  He  posed  in  the  Riverton  directory  as  a  ship- 
owner; but  this  sounding  phrase  meant  simply  that  he  owned 
a  couple  of  coasting  schooners,  a  brig,  a  tug  or  two,  and  half  a 
score  of  barges.  But  as  there  is  a  head  and  a  tail  to  all  creep- 
ing things,  so  there  is  a  head  and  a  tail  to  the  ship-owning 
fraternity.  Dunscombe  walked  with  the  tail  and  the  rattle 
he  made  suggested  a  kinship  to  the  snake  of  that  species. 

He  came  to  the  sea-wall  and  faced  the  growing  mist.  He 
knew  by  the  decreasing  volume  of  sound  that  it  was  not  yet 
thick  enough  to  suspend  navigation,  for  when  this  happens  the 


82  THE  ISSUE 

great  river  runs  silently  under  its  wintry  cloak  and  the  eddies 
swirling  on  the  foreshore  are  the  only  tokens  of  its  presence. 

It  was  cold  by  the  riverside.  Those  who  have  walked  as 
Dunscombe  walked  know  precisely  the  degree  of  discomfort 
produced  by  a  river  fog.  Had  he  been  a  man  of  less  persis- 
tence, of  less  energy,  be  would  have  returned.  But  this  was 
not  Dunscombe's  way.  There  was  money  at  the  back  of  this 
walk.  He  had  set  himself  the  task  of  earning  a  good  round 
sum  from  that  long-suffering  body  of  city  men  known  as  the 
underwriters,  and  he  intended  to  lose  no  time  in  the  process. 
To  be  an  underwriter  is  synonymous  in  some  people's  eyes 
with  being  a  Croesus.  A  Croesus  is  an  individual  who  suffers 
from  fatty  degeneration  of  the  moneybags  and  a  knife  is  nec- 
essary to  effect  a  cure — so  with  the  underwriters.  Dunscombe 
held  the  knife. 

The  river  bank  was  slimy.  To  walk  without  gathering  a 
sabot  of  clay  was  impossible — at  the  end  of  ten  paces  you  shed 
a  sabot  and  began  again.  Authority  considered  it  an  excellent 
means  of  keeping  the  Tommies  in  barracks,  for  no  nursemaids 
with  any  pretensions  would  be  seen  dead  on  that  clay.  The 
man  who  followed  Dunscombe  considered  it  from  a  different 
standpoint. 

On  the  one  hand,  then,  there  rolled  a  fog-bank  slowly  strang- 
ling navigation.  On  the  other  a  white  and  steaming  mist  com- 
bined to  hide  the  marshland.  Dunscombe  plodded  on  the  clay 
perched  high  above  the  ditch  which  lay  on  his  right.  It  was 
high  tide  and  only  a  narrow  margin  of  grass  land  intervened 
between  the  sea-wall  and  the  river.  He  moved,  therefore,  with 
caution,  as  befits  a  man  who  intends  to  handle  currency.  He 
had  often  come  here  afoot  in  the  dead  of  night.  He  had  no 
fear,  nor  any  very  distinct  impression  that  he  was  hated.  He 
knew  that  he  was  not  loved — as  the  river  men  express  it — 


THE  SEA-WALL  83 

but  that  formed  no  obstacle.  Were  there  not  police.  The 
man  had  no  imagination.  His  brain  was  occupied  with  the 
processes  by  which  it  is  possible  to  make  shipping  pay  in  these 
days  of  competition,  and  nothing  else  was  worthy  of  thought. 
As  he  came  near  the  stile  perched  midway  to  the  Garter  Pier 
hotel  an  unusual  sound  struck  his  ear. 

Dunscombe  halted  at  once,  his  faculties  alert  to  discover 
some  new  piece  of  idiocy  on  the  part  of  his  hands,  for  this  was 
the  anchoring  ground  of  that  fleet  he  ruled  so  parsimoniously. 
He  told  himself  that  a  boat  had  been  left  to  drive  ashore  and 
knock  herself  to  pieces — perchance  one  of  his  boats.  Devil 
take  the  careless  loons!  What  thought  have  they  for  a  master's 
property?  In  Dunscombe's  eyes  the  only  thing  for  which 
they  care  or  look,  is  their  "Saturday  night" — all  else  is  bagatelle. 

Using  his  stick  to  guide  him  the  man  stepped  down  to  make 
discoveries.  He  crossed  the  grass,  avoiding  the  pools  and  bridged 
a  rivulet  which  had  its  birth  diurnally  with  the  incident  of  high 
tide.  Pish!  He  would  be  wet  before  he  had  done  with  this 
business — wet,  and  he  desired  to  keep  dry.  No — it  was  not  a 
boat;  it  was — what  the  devil  was  it? 

Nothing — worse  than  nothing.  A  round  and  flabby  horror; 
the  carcass  of  a  dead  sheep  or  goat,  distended,  hairless,  bobbing 
in  the  shallows — yet  he  could  have  sworn  he  heard  a  boat. 
Faugh!  the  thing  stank.  It  was  poison — rank.  Why  did 
these  evidences  of  decay  always  drive  ashore  when  there  was 
the  whole  river  to  hide  them  ?  Dunscombe  could  not  have  said. 
The  law  governing  the  grounding  of  floating  matter  did  not 
appeal  to  him  except  in  the  case  of  shipping,  and  then  it  only 
took  the  form  of  a  question  as  to  the  punishment  to  be  meeted 
to  the  author  of  the  mishap.  He  commenced  to  climb  the  bank 
anew,  then  paused  as  again  the  sound  crept  out  of  the  stillness. 

He  was  right.     He  plumed  himself  on  this  fact.     It  wa 


84  THE  ISSUE 

boat,  a  boat  coming  shoreward.  He  resumed  his  attitude  of 
watchfulness  and  presently  a  cry  rang  out  to,  satisfy  him:  "Ahoy 
there !  Garter  Pier  ahoy ! " 

A  bell  struck  near  at  hand  was  the  response.  Although 
nothing  was  visible  Dunscombe  knew  from  this  that  a  boat  was 
anchored  only  a  few  lengths  distant.  Again  the  cry  assailed 
him:  "Ahoy!  Ahoy!"  and  the  answer  rolled  in  the  fog. 

"What  ho,  mate— hello!" 

"Where  away  for  Garter  Pier ?    Up  or  down  ? " 

"Down  a  tidy  lump.    Who's  there?" 

"Elliott." 

"Jack  Elliott?" 

"Aye!    This  fog  has  put  me  out  of  my  reckoning. " 

Dunscombe  remained  attentive.  It  was  one  of  his  modes 
of  gleaning  information,  and  frequently  pregnant  of  results. 
The  talk  went  on  as  the  boat  moved  in.  "Just  up,  I  s'pose?" 

"Aye;  brought  to  off  the  wharf  I  reckoned,  and  want  to  catch 
the  8.15." 

"You'll  have  to  step  it  then.  Land  on  the  wall,  mate;  there's 
a  tongue  just  inshore  of  me. " 

"  Right.     So  long,  skipper. " 

"So  long,  old  son. " 

Dunscombe  had  gained  but  small  information,  but  he  had  a 
word  to  say  to  Elliott  and  stepped  back  to  give  himself  the 
pleasure  of  saying  it  with  sufficient  point.  A  minute  later  the 
boat's  nose  took  the  ground  and  as  Elliott  sprang  ashore  his 
master  moved  to  confront  him. 

"This  is  not  the  sort  of  weather  to  leave  your  ship  in,  my 
lad, "  he  threw  out  with  a  snarl. 

The  skipper  paused  midway  to  the  bank  and  stared.  "  Who 
would  have  thought  of  seeing  you,  sir!"  he  remarked  inconse- 
quently. 


THE  SEA-WALL  8$ 

''Evidently  you  would  not.    What  are  you  doing?" 

"  Going  home,  sir. " 

"Call  back  your  boat." 

"What  for?" 

"To  take  you  on  board  again." 

"But  I  don't  want  to  go  aboard.    I'm  bound  home." 

"I  suppose,"  said  Dunscombe  in  his  most  provocative  style, 
"I  suppose  you  understand  that  you  are  refusing  to  obey  my 
orders. " 

"Sir,  I  obey  your  orders.  I  obey  them  often  when  I'd  like 
to  do  the  other  thing;  but  the  tug's  at  anchor,  lights  hoisted, 
fires  banked,  the  mate's  in  charge,  and  I  am  going  home.  The 
fog  won't  rise  this  side  of  noon  to-morrow.  Why  should  I  stay  ? 
Excuse  me,  it's  wet  standing  here. " 

With  that  he  picked  his  way  across  the  grass  and  climbed  the 
sea-wall.  Dunscombe  followed. 

"  Now,  sir,  if  you'll  tell  me  what  good  it  will  do  you  me  being 
on  the  tug,"  Elliott  resumed,  "why,  although  I'd  promised  Sue 
— that  is  I've  made  arrangements  to  be  at  home  to-night,  I'll 
listen  to  you. " 

This  rather  unwise  speech  angered  Dunscombe  and  he  turned 
round  to  give  emphasis  to  the  fact.  "I  am  not  going  to  argue, 
Elliott.  I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  arguing  with  my  hands.  I 
order  you  to  go  on  board. " 

"Sir.  I'm  not  a  dog,  though  God  knows  I've  served  you 
faithfully.  Suppose  I  refuse — what  then  ?" 

"You  can  take  a  week's  notice. " 

Elliott  hesitated.  "That's  it,  Mr.  Dunscombe;  now  we 
understand  each  other, "  he  said  at  length. 

"Hail  your  boat!"  cried  the  master. 

"No,  sir.  I'm  not  such  a  fool  as  to  make  those  chaps  turn 
back  and  lose  their  bearings  in  this  thundering  fog.  If  I  do  go 


86  THE  ISSUE 

off  it  will  be  in  a  waterman's  skiff.  Why,  what  has  gone  wrong, 
sir?  Don't  I  give  you  satisfaction?" 

The  skipper's  voice  took  a  new  note.  He  was  thinking  of 
Susie  and  wondering  how  she  would  bear  his  home-coming  if, 
on  the  eve  of  her  marriage,  he  brought  the  news  of  his  discharge. 
To  quarrel  with  a  man  of  Dunscombe's  type  was  equivalent  to 
a  period  of  idleness,  perhaps  of  starvation;  for  no  skipper  so 
discharged  found  it  easy  to  regain  command — at  all  events  on 
the  Thames. 

Dunscombe  watched  him  through  half-closed  eyes.  "I 
believe,"  he  returned  with  a  snap,  "that  you  might  do  better." 

A  suggestion  flashed  through  Elliott's  brain.  "What  is  it, 
sir,"  he  questioned,  "hasn't  the  derelict  job  turned  out  trumps  ?" 

"That  is  a  big  affair,  my  lad.  We  can  leave  it  to  look  after 
itself.  It  is  the  little  things,  Elliott,  the  little  things  which  give 
opportunity  for  peculation." 

Dunscombe  spoke  meaningly,  with  an  inflection  that  would 
have  made  a  dead  man  squirm  and  Elliott  acknowledged  the  fact 
in  words  that  leaped  hot  to  reply. 

"Look  here,"  he  cried,  "fair  play's  a  jewel.  Speak  out 
straight — man  to  man.  What  have  you  got  up  against  me  ?" 

"Did  you  tow  the  Tantalus  when  she  was  on  her  last  charter 
— quite  lately?" 

Elliott  swore  but  quickly  regained  control.  "I  did  give  her 
a  pluck,"  he  acknowledged. 

"Off  the  Jenkin?" 

"That's  it,  sir." 

"Where  does  it  come  in  in  the  charges'  sheet?" 

"It  doesn't  come  in." 

"Why    not?" 

"Because  there  wasn't  any  towing  done.  Any  little  tosher* 
could  have  done  it." 

•Small  tug-boat. 


THE  SEA-WALL  87 

"Oh— how's  that?" 

' '  Well,  it's  like  this.  I'm  lying  on  the  tide  waiting  for  a  chance 
of  a  tow  when  Sutcliffe  came  sagging  by.  There  wasn't  enough 
wind  to  flutter  the  duff  bag*  at  his  masthead.  Sutcliffe  was 
driving  on  to  the  sands  and  I  nosed  him  off  to  an  anchorage. 
There  wasn't  any  question  of  towing;  there  wasn't " 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know  all  about  it, "  Dunscombe  broke  in  sharply. 
"It's  the  old  story  of  damned,  bare-faced  robbery.  You  put 
your  hand  behind  your  back  and  take  five  shillings  and  arrange 
to  say  nothing  about  it. " 

Elliott  faced  him  instantly,  his  face  ablaze.  "That's  a  lie!" 
he  cried,  "and  the  man  that  says  it  is  a  liar. " 

"Pish,  man;  don't  bully  me." 

"It's  a  lie— by  God,  it's  a  lie." 

"  I  know  it  for  fact.    Stand  off,  man,  don't  hustle  me!" 

"Hustle  you — you  damned  worm!  Stand  off  yourself. 
Take  back  those  words  or  by  the  Lord  and  all  His  angels  I'll 
choke  them  out  of  you — see?" 

Elliott  caught  him  by  the  throat  and  stood  over  him,  shaking 
him  savagely.  Dunscombe  was  like  a  rat  in  the  grip  of  a  terrier, 
but  he  squirmed  for  freedom.  "Let  go!"  he  cried.  "Heigh 
there— help '.help!" 

Elliott  shook  on.  "You  came  down  here  to  give  me  the  sack ; 
but  you  aren't  the  man  to  do  it  straight.  You  tell  me  I  stole 
your  money.  You  tell  me  I'm  a  liar  when  I'm  speaking  God's 
truth.  You  come  sneaking  and  prowling  about  in  places 
where  you  have  no  business — and  now  you've  got  something. " 

Dunscombe  writhed  in  desperation.  He  had  not  looked 
for  this.  His  habit  of  bully-ragging  had  got  the  better  of  his 
natural  caution.  A  man  may  call  another  a  liar,  perhaps  more 
than  once,  in  the  security  of  his  office  and  from  the  arms  of  a 

*Wind  vane. 


88  THE  ISSUE 

swivel  chair  upholstered  in  plush ;  but  out  in  the  open,  facing 
the  river,  within  sound  of  the  steamer  horns — scarcely.  Yet 
he  fought  gamely  for  freedom,  shouting  his  plaint  to  the  night: 
"Let  go!  Let  go!  Hi,  there!  Help!  Help!" 

Elliott  flung  him  off.  "Right.  Let  go  it  is.  Stand  up  fair 
and  no  nonsense.  No  man  shall  say  I  stole  his  money.  Why, 
I  would  sooner  have  paid  the  crown  myself  than  let  poor  Sut- 
cliff e  pay  it.  Stand  out ! " 

The  master  gathered  his  forces  and  stood  at  bay:  "It's 
a  lie,"  he  hissed,  "and  you  know  it.  Mind,  the  matter  won't 
end  here.  The  courts  shall  decide  it — you  understand  ?  " 

His  words  suddenly  died.  A  strange,  choking  cry  broke 
from  Elliott's  lips.  He  leaped  forward  swinging  his  arm  and 
Dunscombe  fell  on  the  clay  he  had  marked  with  his  feet — fell 
and  remained  there  like  a  sack  flung  from  the  tail  of  a  cart. 

And  then  Elliott  acted  the  fool. 

When  a  man  strikes  down  his  master,  the  person  who  finds 
him  that  most  necessary  "Saturday  night,"  he  may  fairly  be 
accused  of  rashness;  but  when  he  leaves  that  master  to  the 
tenderness  of  a  fog-bound  night  he  acts  the  fool  and  perhaps 
something  beside. 

Necessarily  Elliott  did  not  admit  this.  Dunscombe  had 
called  him  a  liar  and  he  had  knocked  him  down — that  being 
done  the  man's  passion  lapsed;  the  tension  was  over  and  he 
kneeled  beside  him  to  see  how  he  fared.  He  breathed.  There 
was  a  flickering  of  the  drawn  in  nostrils,  there  was  a  bad  cut 
over  the  eyes  and  the  man  bled;  but  he  was  only  stunned  and 
would  recover.  Too  soon  in  all  probability  he  would  recover; 
then  there  would  be  trouble.  Elliott  would  be  delayed  and 
unable  perhaps  to  see  Susie.  Was  there  not  even  a  chance  of 
arrest  ?  Had  not  Dunscombe  threatened  it  in  that  paltry  matter 
of  the  five  shillings  ? 


THE  SEA-WALL  89 

And  if  there  was  arrest  he  would  not  see  Susie — Susie  who 
waited  his  coming  and  was  to  go  to  church  with  him  to-morrow 
to  hear  the  banns  read.  Arrest — that  was  the  danger. 

The  thing  flashed  before  him  in  many  guises.  He  had  been 
branded  a  liar  and  a  thief.  For  no  fault  he  was  to  be  discharged 
precisely  as  those  others  had  been  discharged.  Dunscombe 
was  no  man.  He  deserved  consideration  from  no  one.  Elliot 
breathed  quickly  at  the  memory  of  his  wrongs  and  he  rose  from 
his  knees  and  hastened  up  the  sea-wall  towards  Riverton. 

In  his  own  vernacular,  "all  the  fat  was  in  the  fire"  and  he 
must  abide  the  result. 

But  the  move  was  hazardous.  Even  more  hazardous  than 
that  of  Susie's  upon  which  the  stars  had  looked  down  and 
smiled. 

And  in  the  background  was  that  singed  figure  from  the  door 
of  the  Scorpion — a  man  who  carried  one  arm  as  though  it  were 
slung  and  on  whose  feet  were  clogs  of  the  North  country  pattern 
— clogs  heavy  with  clay. 


CHAPTER  III 
CLACK 

THE  fog  had  vanished,  leaving  the  world  to  count  the 
cost  during  some  brief  hours  of  sunshine.  A  dull, 
steamy  day,  lacking  wind,  with  the  sun  sucking  at  the 
quivering  marshland.  Hours  of  this,  then  followed  declining 
light,  growing  mist,  the  ghost  of  twilight  and  in  natural  sequence 
the  earth  lay  banked  once  more  in  fog. 

But  early  in  the  day,  before  noon  in  point  of  fact,  Riverton 
was  thrilled  to  its  heart  by  a  report.  A  rumour  had  arrived, 
carried  no  one  knew  whence  or  how,  to  the  effect  that  a  man 
had  been  found  by  the  river  embankment,  under  the  sea-wall 
— a  man,  beaten,  bruised,  dead,  and  lying  in  the  ditch  outside 
the  town. 

A  gloomy  conclave  approached  the  spot  hazarding  opinions 
and  spouting  vile  tobacco: 

"Terr'ble!  terr'ble!    Who  can  it  be?" 

A  question  this  not  easily  answered,  for  the  man's  face  was 
foully  mauled  and  battered.  It  had  lain,  too,  in  that  stagnant 
ditch  some  hours.  Cries  went  up  from  lips  biting  hard  on 
short  black  pipes:  "Eigh!  Shockin',  shockin'.  'Go's done  it? 
Wot  for  ?  An'  'oo's  the  bloke  ?  " 

All  pertinent  questions  given  off  by  men  peering  at  the  thing 
lying  there  for  men  and  boys  to  stare  upon,  given  off  in  the  dull, 
immovable  fashion  of  persons  accustomed  to  tragedy. 

"'Oo's  done  it?"  was  speedily  dismissed  as  an  abstract  prob- 
lem requiring  time  for  solution.  "Wot  for?"  gained  the 

90 


CLACK  91 

S  t 

answer:  "Not  robbery,  that's  a  moral,"  for  were  not  watch  and 
purse  quite  safe?  "'Go's  the  bloke?"  was  perhaps  a  trifle 
baffling  on  seeing  the  face.  But  the  watch  and  some  stray 
letters  explained  at  once.  A  loafer  with  a  dismal  voice  spelled 
out  the  name:  Wakeley  Dunscombe,  Esquire. 

Wakeley  Dunscombe,  owner  of  the  Bluebell,  and  a  score  of 
river  craft,  he  it  was  who  lay  there,  blind  at  last  to  all  possible 
methods  of  money-getting. 

The  dismal  voice  went  on:  "Dunscombe!  Well,  of  all  the 

bloomin'  jaunts  I've "  and  broke  off  to  expectorate 

viciously  in  the  ditch. 

Another  voice  took  up  the  plaint:  "A  'ard  case  'ee  wos, 
terr'ble  'ard — yus,  it  licks!" 

"Hard  perhaps,"  a  softer  voice  suggested;  "but  look  at 
the  site  he  gave  to  the  Wesleyans." 

The  dismal  personage  removed  his  pipe  to  give  force  to  his 
opinion:  "A  chap  uz  ground  'is  'ands  like  'ell." 

"And  a  man  who  headed  many  subscription  lists — come, 
you  must  own  to  it." 

"Own  to  it?  Ya-as,  but  wot  did  'ee  do  fer  the  widdas  an' 
kiddies  of  them  he's  drowned?  Any  subscription  for  them? 
Garn!  It's  Dunscombe.  I'm  not  tikin'  any." 

Opinions  for  and  against  waxed  in  power  and  volume.  The 
air  by  the  ditch  resounded  with  defence  and  defiance,  with 
cursings  and  prayers  for  silence,  the  latter  brought  out  by  the 
knowledge  that  at  all  hazards  the  man  no  longer  existed  to 
press  on  his  fellows.  Then  came  a  shutter  and  with  its  advent 
there  presently  marched  a  solemn  cortege  to  the  Garter  Pier 
hotel. 

Wakeley  Dunscombe  was  dead.  How  the  news  made  way 
in  the  steaming  air,  gathering  the  crowd  who  lounge,  together 
with  the  crowd  who  have  no  leisure  for  lounging.  How  the 


92  THE  ISSUE 

busy  tongues  wagged,  clacking  of  this  or  that  possibility!  How 
necks  were  craned  in  eager  converse! 

"Dead,  where?" 

"In  the  shed  outside." 

"True?" 

"Aye,  true  enough.  Bashed.  Beaten  to  death.  Indis- 
tinguishable." 

"Eigh!  shockin',  shockin'!" 

A  crowded  house  that  dead  house,  during  all  the  remaining 
hours.  A  silent,  solemn  house  inside;  a  busy,  noisy  space 
within  the  tap-room  doors  where  bronzed  men  shuffled  the 
news  across  sawdust  floors. 

''H'astseen'im?" 

"Yaas." 

"Looks  crewl,  don't  'ee?" 

"Yaas." 

"Leaves  a  taste  in  a  man's  mouth,  don't  it?" 

"Yaas." 

Three  of  rum  are  necessary  to  dissipate  the  taste  and  the 
Garter's  comfortable  bar  is  close  at  hand. 

A  more  cultured  voice  took  up  the  thread,  speaking  earnestly : 

"Terrible  business  this?" 

"Indeed  you  are  right." 

"Wonder  what  could  have  been  the  motive?" 

"Oh,  some  of  his  discharged  hands,  probably." 

"Bad,  bad!  Want  to  be  diplomatic  now-a-days  as  well  as 
discriminating.  I  never  take  on  heavy  chaps  myself — bad 
policy.  Kick  too  hard  if  it  comes  to  that.  Bah!  Ugly  busi- 
ness— have  a  drink?" 

Across  the  counter  the  clack  went  on  apace. 

"What's  yours?" 

"Somethin'  short.    Looks  ugly,  don'  'ee?" 


CLACK  93 

"Yaas;  wot  d'you  say  to  threes  of  brandy?" 

"Couldn't  better  it.  Two  threes  of  brandy,  Miss,  straight. 
Well,  here's  to  us — an'  him." 

"Gawd!  didyer  see 'isfice?" 

"Naa!  don'  seem  to  'ave  none  left.  Seems  like  uz  if  'ee'd 
bin'  'it  wi'  a  bloomin'  engine,  don'  'ee?" 

"S'elp  me,  I'm  sick.     Two  pints  of  four  'arf,  Miss." 

"Lumme!  wot's  the  use  o'  that?     Give  us  two  goes  o'  rum." 

"Lawd!  the  poor  head  of  him." 

"Two  pints  of  'alf  an'  'alf." 

"  Couldn't  get  a-nigh  him. " 

"Two  brandies  and  a  soda,  split,  Miss." 

"I  tell  yer  there  ain't  no  eyes  lef  to  see.  Is  there,  Bill?  I 
ast  you  as  a  chap  as  knows  wot's  wot." 

"Threes  of  brandy  short." 

"Pint  o'  four  'alf." 

Indescribable,  baffling  reproduction  in  its  grim,  crude  colour- 
ing; but  human  interest,  humanly  expressed  after  the  fashion 
of  the  viewers. 


CHAPTER  IV 
MICKY  DOOLAN  EXPLAINS 

IT  WAS  Micky  Doolan,  now  mate  of  the  t'antalus,  who 
brought  to  Abbeyville  the  news  of  Dunscombe's  murder. 

To  say  that  versatile  Irishman  was  elated,  is  to  convey  but 
little  of  the  overwhelming  importance  with  which  he  explained 
the  details  to  those  eager  knots  of  village  listeners.  Micky 
Doolan,  it  appeared,  had  been  the  first  to  see  the  horror  of  the 
ditch.  He  was  the  man  who  had  summoned  police  assistance 
and  volunteered,  afterwards,  to  be  one  of  those  who  carried  the 
terrible  burden  to  the  dead  house. 

These  were  matters  which  contributed  to  render  Micky  the 
person  next  in  importance  to  the  unknown  murderer;  and 
materially  helped  to  assuage  his  thirst  at  no  expense  to  him- 
self that  day. 

By  nightfall,  indeed,  he  had  repeated  his  story  so  often,  and 
so  many  "dhrinks  had  been  slung  at  him,"  that  there  is  a  pos- 
sibility of  truth  in  the  rumour  which  grew  about  his  name  in 
this  connection. 

It  was  said  that  Tony  Crow  found  him  the  following  morn- 
ing sleeping  peacefully  on  the  smithy  floor,  his  head  pillowed 
on  a  bundle  of  tongs  and  his  arms  about  the  anvil.  But  Abbey- 
ville loved  gossip  only  one  degree  less  than  it  loved  a  mystery; 
and  like  all  villages  could  play  with  the  best  at  exaggeration. 

It  was  in  the  smithy  yard  where  Doolan  first  broke  ground, 
and  the  time  was  eleven  o'clock  on  the  day  following  the  mur- 
der. A  time  propitious  for  yarns  and  a  hearing,  being,  in  point 

94 


MICKY  DOOLAN  EXPLAINS  95 

of  fact,  the  hour  when  the  British  workman  takes  his  lunch. 
Micky  was  standing  near  the  open  smithy  door,  a  knot  of  men 
about  him,  and  Tony  Crow,  open  mouthed  and  beaded  with 
sweat,  amidst  tne  group  who  faced  him. 

"Whhat  was  ut?"  said  Micky  Doolan  with  a  swing  of  im- 
portance. "Ut's  murdher,  me  sons — that's  whhat  ut  was. 
Who  wass  ut?"  he  went  on  with  appalling  pride.  "Misther 
Dunscombe,  dead  as  porrk  an'  appil  sauce,  an'  twice  as  nasthy." 

"Socks!"  cried  Tony  Crow  in  hollow  tones. 

"Garn!  Drawr  it  mild,  Micky.  What  are  you  givin'  us? 
Top  it  off  somebody!"  cried  the  audience  with  unusual  fervour. 

"Where  wass  ut?"  said  the  Irishman  again,  no  whit  stag- 
gered at  this  reception  of  news  honestly  circumstantial. 
"Listhen,  an' I'll  tell  yez." 

"I'm  comin'  up  the  say-wall  from  beyand  the  forrt.  Bad 
luck  to  ye,  Jock  Stoggers  wid  yer  interruptions.  But  ye've 
hit  ut;  I  wass  dhown  at  the  Pier — an'  ut  wass  Miss  Mary  I 
wass  afther.  Now  will  ye  let  me  get  on,  ye  slummer? 

"I'm  comin'  up  the  say- wall,  pickin'  me  way  along  the  grass 
because  av  the  mud.  The  fog's  in  me  eyes  an'  dhown  me 
throat,  an'  I'm  gropin'  along  loike  a  crab  on  the  beach,  whin  I 
hear  the  scuttle  av  rats  in  the  ditch.  'Divil  run  away  wid  ye,'  sez 
I,  'ye  skulkin'  black  bastes.  Whhat  are  ye  doin'  scarin'  the 
sowl-case  out  av  a  man  ? '  Thin  wan  av  the  brutes  came  dhown 
acrass  me  thracks  an'  I  slung  me  cap  at  ut,  an'  had  to  climb  the 
mud  to  fetch  ut. 

"Whhat  did  I  see?  A  pool  av  blood.  Strakes  av  blood  on 
the  stones,  the  thurmoil  av  bloody  grass  an'  a  man's  hat  bat- 
tered out  av  shape.  That's  whhat  I  saw,  me  sons.  'Glory  be, 
Micky,  ye  slummer,'  sez  I,  'is  ut  dhrinkin'  ye've  been  an'  ye're 
seein'  things — or  whhat  is  ut?' 

"I  rubbed  me  eyes,  lookin'  ut  fair  an'  square  in  the  face  an' 


96  THE  ISSUE 

wint  to  make  investigations.  'What  is  ut  ?  what  is  ut  ?'  That's 
the  queschun  I'm  askin'  meself  all  the  toime  I'm  climbin' 
dhown  the  thracks.  It's  not  sheep-stealin'  or  slaughter-house 
bizness;  there's  not  enuff  blood  for  that;  an'  the  man's  hat  don't 
belong  to  any  sheep-stealin'  sogers.  Whhat  thin  is  ut  ? 

"I'm  starin'  through  the  fog  at  the  marks  av  boots  dhragged 
dhown  the  bank.  They've  torn  away  the  grass,  long  strakes 
av  ut,  an'  dhown  beyant,  lyin'  half  in,  half  out  the  ditch,  is  a 
soakin'  whelterin'  mass. 

"Whhat  wass  ut ?    Whhat  could  ut  be ? " 

"A  sticket  sheep,  ma  son,"  said  Tony  with  a  short  laugh. 

"Murdher!  That's  whhat  ut  wass,"  said  Micky  Doolan, 
and  then  he  paused. 

"How  do  you  know?"  cried  a  voice. 

"Which  av  you,"  said  Micky  Doolan  in  reply,  awud  knock 
his  head  to  blazes,  an'  thin  dhrown  ut  in  a  ditch  av  stinkin' 
wather?  Answer  me  that  who  spoke." 

"Tain't  likely,"  cried  several  voices  together.  "Don't 
mind  his  jaw.  What  did  you  do  ?  " 

"Whhat  did  I  do  ?  I  sthooped  over  an'  pulled  his  head  from 
the  wather — for,  sez  I,  'who's  to  know  he's  dead?'  I  hadn't 
seen  his  face  then,  bhoys.  Glory  be!  I  wish  I  hadn't.  I 
wish  ut  heartily.  But  I  lifted  him  be  the  shoulders  an' 
looked.  Mother  av  God!  what  a  sight  ut  wass.  Ugh,  the 
ugliness  av  ut  all  laid  opin  fer  inspechsun  an'  the  slugs  set  fast 
alridy." 

Tony  Crow  moved  nearer,  raising  his  hands.  "Go  easy, 
ye  mad  Irishman,"  he  cried.  "D'ye  want  me  ta  bash  ma 
fingers  when  ah  coom  t'wark.  Socks!  ye've  gien  me  a  taste 
it'll  coss  sothin  't'  squench." 

"I  knew  ut,"  said  Micky,  triumphantly;  "I  knew  ut. 
There's  not  a  man  I've  told  ut  to,  but  whhat  he's  had  a  thaste." 


MICKY  DOOLAN  EXPLAINS  97 

"  Did  ye  know  who  it  was,  Mike  ?  What  did  you  do  ?  Tell 
us  that, "  cried  the  rest  of  the  audience. 

"I  tuk  leg  bail  for  ut,"  he  replied;  "I  never  thravelled  loike 
ut  in  me  toime.  I  ran  fer  the  stachun,  told  me  yarn  an'  fin- 
ished up  wid  a  requesht  fer  a  dhrink. " 

"You  shouldn't  have  run,"  said  a  voice  from  behind. 

"Whhat  for  shouldn't  I?  Whhat  for  shouldn't  I,  Win'bag 
Saundisson  ?  " 

"Because  it's  not  always  safe  to  run,"  said  the  Bluebell's 
skipper  quietly.  "I  knew  a  chap  once  that  nearly  got  lagged 
for  running. " 

"  Ye  did  ?    An'  whhat  has  that  to  do  wid  me  ?  " 

"Nothing — nothing  whatever  as  far  as  I  know.  I'm  speak- 
ing on  general  principles  simply. " 

"An'  on  gen'ral  principles  I  shud  say  you're  wrong,  Win'- 
bag, "  said  the  Irishman.  "If  you  ask  me  whhat  I  think  about 
ut,  I  shud  say  the  innocent'll  run,  if  he's  got  mixed  up  in  ut ;  an' 
the  guilty  will  stand  firm  so  long  as  there's  no  suspicshun  laid 
at  his  door." 

"Socks!"  cried  Tony  Crow,  "let  us  aa*  run.  We  don' 
want  t'harken  t'none  o'  Win'bag's  argiments.  He's  a  chice 
speerit,  there's  na  doot;  but  just  noo  ma  speerit  tak's 
t'form  o'  two's  o'  rum.  An'  Micky  Doolan  looks  as 
though  he  were  of  the  same  moind.  Out  wi'  ye — ah'm  shut- 
tin'  t'door." 

In  the  Southern  Trader,  the  landlord  had  heard  nothing  of 
the  rumour.  So  Micky  Doolan's  story  was  retold  with  em- 
bellishments for  the  benefit  of  the  new  audience. 

In  the  afternoon  another  rumour  flew  clacking  from  tongue 
to  tongue.  Where  it  originated  no  one  thought  of  asking  until 
it  came  to  Tony  Crow.  It  had  grown  from  a  simple  sentence 
heard  by  some  gossip  earlier  in  the  day,  and  by  dusk,  the  whole 


98  THE  ISSUE 

village  knew  and  discussed  the  damning  words  with  bated 
breath. 

It  came  from  Riverton  the  woman  said.  The  police  were 
on  the  track.  Ehlshockin',  shockin'.  From  right  amongst  us — 
what  could  have  put  it  into  the  lad's  head  ?  What  lad  ? 

"Jack  Elliott." 

"Socks!  wha  telled  ye  thot  lee?" 

The  blacksmith  halted  beside  the  forge  staring  at  the  men 
who  spoke. 

"Why,  everybody  says  so,  Tony." 

"Wha'seevrebody?" 

"All  the  village,  man.    The  police  are  after  him,  anyway." 

"T'Lord  sen'  he  may  get  ava  them.  Eigh  man!  what  art 
thou  gem'  us?"  Tony  dropped  the  sledge  and  stood  before 
the  glowing  fire,  obviously  incapable  of  further  effort.  "Ah'll 
jus'  shut  oop  t'shop,"  he  said,  relapsing  into  his  broader 
dialect  as  his  excitement  grew.  "Ah'm  no  fit  fer  more  the 
day.  Jock  Elliott!  Socks!  Ah'm  no  dootin'  ye;  but  ah  can- 
nit  believe  it  of  tlad." 

"  But  he's  gone  from  home,  Tony." 

The  blacksmith  made  no  reply  and  the  other  continued: 

"They've  looked  for  him  far  an'  wide;  his  old  woman  haven't 
set  eyes  on  him  since  Saturday  night. " 

Tony  sat  down  on  a  spar  which  lay  outside  the  smithy;  the 
others  clustered  about  him,  for  in  that  community  Tony's  opin- 
ion was  considered  absolute. 

"  They  say  that  Elliott  was  sacked  the  night  before  the  mur- 
der, "  said  the  voice. 

"Sackit,  fer  what?" 

"Not  playin'  it  square  wi'  the  Guv'nor.  Did  a  bit  on  his 
own,  they  say.  There's  a  barney  on  the  sea-wall;  there's  them 
as  heard  it." 


MICKY  DOOLAN  EXPLAINS  99 

"Eigh,  the  puir  laddie. " 

"The  Guv'nor  had  to  go  down  river  way  at  night  for  some 
papers,  so  they  say,  an'  Elliott  meets  him  an'  it's  all  up. " 

"Wha  says  aa'  this?" 

"Everybody,  Tony.  Lawd!  It's  Elliott  they're  lookin'  for 
an'  no  other,  Riverton  way." 

"Eevrebody!  Then  ah  don'  tak'  oop  wi'  it.  Ye're  like 
t'a  ruck  o'  cluckin'  hens,  wi'  yer  eevrebody. " 

The  group  fell  back  and  the  blacksmith  resumed: 

"They  say  Dunscombe's  kickit  abaht  t'head.  Ah'm  no 
dootin'  it;  but  ah  know  summat  abaht  keekin'.  Ah  lairned  it 
oop  noarth,  an'  ah'm  gaein'  ta  see  yon  dead  un.  When  ah  coom 
back,  ah'll  tell  ye." 

Micky  Doolan  who  had  circuitously  approached  the  group 
during  the  latter  sentences,  now  stood  clutching  feebly  at  an 
anchor.  The  light  from  the  smithy  fire  fell  full  upon  him. 

"Jack  Ell — Elliosh?  'Mpossible.  Know — hie — know  Jack 
Ell— Ell— Elliosh  bettethanthat.  Arroo!  Sh'd  think  I  did, 
hie — Futwidja — Kelliosh — once.  Know  ut.  Arroo!  n'eyes- 
to-luk-out-of — hie — when-he'd — finish " 

Micky  Doolan  was  already  suffering  visibly  from  the  effects 
of  the  taste  he  could  not  drown.  Someone  took  him  by  the 
arm  and  led  him  away;  but  when  Tony  Crow  returned  from 
Riverton  late  that  night,  he  was  lying  almost  speechless  on  a 
seat  in  the  parlour  of  the  Southern  Trader. 

"Ah  see  him,"  said  the  blacksmith  solemnly.  "Ah  see  him 
an'  ah  say  Jock  Elliott's  no  the  chap  thot's  wanted.  Jock  don' 
wear  clogs.  Clogs  is  what  yon  chap  got  it  from — nowt  but 
clogs  cud  do  it. " 

"  Thruebill ! "  cried  Micky  Doolan  waking  up  at  this.  "  Glory 
be.  Na  Jakelliosh — hie.  'Mpossible." 


CHAPTER  V 

MOTHER  KEYNE 

ghost  of  the  chary  dawn  still  lingered  in  the  east 
A  when  Elliott  left  Swinfleet  and  struck  out  down  the 
lanes  for  Riverton.  A  sickly  dawn  it  was  in  all  verity, 
throwing  a  gleam  of  light,  sad,  blurred,  watery;  then  again 
the  land  was  wrapped  in  misty  trappings,  the  gray-green  trees 
vanished  at  the  lower  branches;  the  hop  kilns,  the  farms,  and 
isolated  ricks  all  stood  in  shadow,  unseen  beside  the  sodden  way. 

But  the  man's  thoughts  were  far  from  his  surroundings. 
Half  an  hour  ago  he  had  left  Susie  at  the  gate  of  her  aunt's 
cottage  and  turned  to  see  her  still  waving  him  God-speed. 
The  recollection  thrilled  him  in  spite  of  fog  and  chill  east  wind, 
thrilled  him  in  spite  of  the  difficulties  with  which  he  was 
hedged,  for  had  he  not  kissed  her,  and  had  not  their  last  word 
been  of  marriage — love's  panacea  for  all  entanglement. 

Last  night  on  reaching  the  cottage  he  had  come  in  burdened 
with  the  resolve  to  tell  Susie  of  his  ill  luck — that  viperous  thing 
which,  it  appeared,  still  hovered  to  baffle  him.  But  he  had 
found  so  cosy  a  home,  and  so  real  a  welcome  that  he  could  not 
mar  the  picture  by  proclaiming  his  idiocy  and  unfitness.  That 
is  what  it  had  come  to.  His  walk  to  the  cottage  had  decided 
this.  He  had  played  the  fool,  he  had  lost  control  when  he 
should  have  gripped  it,  and  now,  as  far  as  he  could  discover, 
Susie  would  have  to  pay. 

We  all  pay  in  some  form  for  the  pleasure  of  giving  rein.  In 
blood,  in  tears,  in  hard  earned  cash  we  pay  and  then  stand 


MOTHER  KEYNE  101 

back  to  brood  upon  the  might-have-beens.  It  is  a  law  from 
which  few  escape.  But  Elliott  decided,  in  face  of  that  loving 
welcome,  to  know  the  worst  before  he  spoke. 

The  worst  he  pictured  to  be  dismissal,  the  usual  difficulty 
of  obtaining  fresh  employment  and  a  dwindling  of  that  god- 
send with  which  he  had  intended  to  marry  and  settle.  These 
were  the  makeweights  he  faced  in  imagination.  There  was 
also  that  threat  of  Dunscombe's  to  remember.  He  would  be 
summoned  for  assault  and  battery — perhaps  also,  as  an  ad- 
ditional smudge,  for  drunkenness. 

If  these  came  he  must  meet  them.  But  he  had  no  intention 
of  walking  boldly  into  a  trap.  He  would  get  down  to  the  river, 
see  his  friends,  and  learn  something  definite  as  to  his  position 
in  this  new  character  he  had  earned.  By  the  bridle-path  the 
distance  to  Riverton  was  little  over  four  miles.  He  decided 
to  walk  it,  and  to  that  end  moved  through  by  lanes  and  across 
fields  sodden  with  moisture  till  he  came  to  the  summit  of  the 
hill  where  lies  a  junction  of  four  cross  roads. 

A  raw  and  biting  air  swept  up  the  slope  to  meet  him.  It 
came  from  the  river  carrying  with  it  a  hint  of  the  jarring 
traffic,  the  fog  horns,  the  bells,  the  roar  of  factories  eternally 
grinding  out  cement,  the  ring  of  iron  beaten  and  shaped  at  the 
forges.  Riverton  lay  there  curtained  in  fog.  The  Stormy 
Petrel  lay  there,  perhaps  sounding  her  bell.  The  knowledge 
induced  Elliott  to  hasten.  It  was  possible  that  orders  had 
arrived  and  they  awaited  his  coming.  It  was  possible  too  that 
Dunscombe  waited  at  the  office  to  twit  him  with  the  fact  that 
it  was  tide  time. 

He  came  to  the  level  crossing  and  saw  that  the  gates  were 
closed  against  him.  Over  there  stood  the  old  woman,  cus- 
todian of  the  crossing  cabin  and  guardian  of  the  railway.  She 
held  a  green  flag  in  her  hand  and  waved  him  back. 


102  THE  ISSUE 

"Bide  where  you  be!"  she  commanded,  and  Elliott  moved 
over  to  join  her. 

"Morning,"  he  remarked,  " cold  blow,  Missis.  The  winter's 
coming  in  early." 

"Raw,  Jack  lad,  raw.  Gets  in  a  person's  bones  like  summat 
sticky.  It'll  make  a  carpse  of  I  before  I  be  done  wi'  it."  She 
watched  him  sidelong  from  under  bent  brows,  a  shrewd,  swift 
look  from  eyes  apparently  rheumed.  "A  carpse,"  she  added 
coldly,  "as  stiff  as  thick  dead  un  over  to  the  Garter.  Lard! 
I  wish  I  were  back  to  Darset — I  do." 

She  stood  there  large,  placid,  and  red  of  face,  staring  up  the 
track  and  holding  out  her  gray-green  signal,  to  the  train  which 
drew  near.  Elliott  watched  her  without  concern.  She  was 
known  as  a  certain  prophet  in  all  matters  pretaining  to  rheum- 
atism and  the  weather.  They  went  hand  in  hand  in  this 
forsaken  county.  They  were  interwoven,  in  a  sense,  and 
nothing  short  of  living  in  "Darset"  would  alter  the  fact.  Tea 
was  the  panacea  which  enabled  her  to  endure — good,  strong, 
stewed  tea  set  on  the  hob  and  allowed  to  simmer. 

Elliott  broke  into  the  pause  as  the  train  roar  grew  in  volume. 
"You  will  have  to  make  them  give  you  your  pension,"  he 
shouted;  "they  can  afford  it;  but  who's  at  the  Garter  now? 
Jo  Mackie  or  Ted  Summers  been  picked  up  ?  " 

Again  the  woman  glanced  up  at  him  and  again  said  in  her 
blunt  fashion,  "Naa,  an'  won't  never  be,  I'll  go  bail — for  why? 
'Cause  they'm  fish  meat  by  this.  Blame  thick  train!  'Ow 
she  do  crawl  to  be  zure.  Carpse!  O! 'ee.  Why  Dunscombe  a 
carse — 'oo  else?  'Aven't  'ee  heard?" 

No — Elliott  had  not  heard,  and  even  now  he  was  uncertain 
whether  he  heard  aright.  He  faced  this  old  soul  whose  delight 
it  was  to  prattle  to  all  comers  of  the  beauties  of  "Darset,"  and 
questioned  in  a  new  voice:  "Dunscombe?  Sure?" 


MOTHER  KEYNE  103 

"Zure?  Aye,  zure  enough.  Can't  keep  they  geats  shut  fer 
folks  as  want  to  see  en.  They'm  a'most  as  bothersome  as  the 
rheumatics.  Zure?  O,  aye;  zure  enough.  Dunscombe — 
the  shipowner  man  uz  has  the  whaarf  out  there.  Oh,  aye — 
'n  now  I  come  to  think  on't,  'ee  were  your  master  too  an'  all — 
warn't  'ee,  Jack?" 

She  waved  her  flag  to  indicate  the  riverside,  and  the  train 
drew  slowly  up,  rumbling  in  the  fog.  Elliott  appeared  sud- 
denly fascinated  by  the  approach  of  that  iron  mass.  His  face 
had  taken  a  tinge  of  yellow  which  blended  with  the  day.  He 
leaned  forward  with  questions  framed,  with  eyes  which  entrtated 
— yet  said  no  word.  The  old  woman  saw  and  resumed  her 
prattle. 

"Down  to  Darset,"  she  asserted,  "there's  nary  a  fog  like  to 
this.  Fogs  there  are  white,  like  steam.  You'm  good  fer  a 
hun'ard — not  that  I  be  hankerin'  arter  sech  long  days. 
Zeventy'll  about  do  I.  My  old  man,  'ee  were  zeventy-vive  'an 
a  blame  zight  better  to  a  gone  at  zeventy.  Got  wizened  up 
wi'  thick  owld  pain  o'  hissen  an'  might  a  bin  dead — years. 
Eigh?  'Oo  killed  Dunscombe?  La — 'oo  d'ye  suspeck? 
One  of  'is  chaps  they  zay  up  to  Garter — one  of  'is  chaps — " 
She  eyed  him  sidelong  with  sparrow-like  fidelity  despite  her 
bulk  of  form. 

A  detonator  exploded  as  the  train  drew  past.  "One,"  said 
the  gatekeeper.  A  second  followed  at  an  interval  which  did 
not  please  her.  "Two,"  she  commented;  "right  number; 
but  the  Lard  only  knows  why  'ee  were  so  long  making  up  'is 
mind  to  go  off — blame  if  I  do." 

The  train  lumbered  into  the  fog  lying  dense  over  Riverton 
and  the  woman  laboriously  opened  the  gates. 

Elliott  moved  a  few  paces  to  resume  his  journey,  then  paused, 
twisted  swiftly  on  his  heel  as  though  about  to  start  on  a  race 


104  THE  ISSUE 

and  drew  up.  He  fumbled  in  his  pocket  for  a  pipe,  placed  it 
between  his  teeth  and  struck  a  match.  He  sucked  a  moment 
in  silence,  but  no  smoke  came.  He  looked  into  the  bowl  and 
discovered  that  the  pipe  was  empty. 

Again  he  fumbled,  hand  deep  in  pocket,  produced  a  twist  of 
tobacco,  filled  and  lighted.  The  hand  holding  the  match 
might  have  been  stricken  with  a  palsy,  the  teeth  which  held 
the  stem  seemed  intent  on  dropping  it.  He  shivered  as  though 
the  disease  had  suddenly  widened  its  grip  and  for  a  moment 
there  appeared  a  new  look  in  eyes  usually  steady — a  tense, 
beaten,  scared  look  which  the  majority  of  people  facing  him 
would  have  recognised  at  once.  So  he  decided  drawing  to 
cover.  But  the  old  woman,  whose  faculties  were  no  longer 
alert,  whose  eyes  were  rheumed,  who  delighted  in  vague  recol- 
lections of  "Darset" — well,  she  at  all  events  would 

From  within  the  cottage  came  the  sharp  ting-ting  of  the 
telegraph  asking  for  attention.  The  movement  made  by  the 
old  woman  as  she  crossed  to  reply  broke  the  thread.  She  gave 
a  signal  and  came  into  the  rustic  porch  which  framed  her  door. 
Over  the  archway  and  trellis  were  the  dying  tendrils  of  a 
clematis.  They  rustled  in  the  chill  breeze  high  up  about 
the  woman's  head  and  she  drew  her  shawl  a  shade  more 
closely. 

Elliott  saw  these  things  as  he  stood  there  halting  beside  the 
track.  He  noted  the  curve  of  the  rails  dwindling  away  into 
the  distance,  examined  the  levels  and  found  them  higher  on 
this  side  than  on  that.  He  marked  the  fact  that  the  gulls  swept 
down  upon  a  little  space  where  there  was  a  pool  in  the  marsh- 
land and  emerged  with  something  in  their  beaks;  but  the 
things  failed  to  interest  him.  Across  the  panorama  of  moving 
and  still  life  there  stood  the  picture  of  a  man  lying  bruised  and 
bleeding  high  on  the  sea-wall — a  picture  which  grew  in  force 


MOTHER  KEYNE  105 

and  detail  as  though  under  the  hand  of  an  artist  busy  with  his 
brushes. 

Dunscombe  was  the  centre  of  that  picture — and  Dunscombe 
was  dead — lying  at  the  Garter — struck  down  by  one  of  his  chaps. 

If  that  were  so  then  he Pish!  he  sucked  at  his  pipe,  but 

it  had  gone  out.  He  pressed  down  the  tobacco  and  withdrew 
his  finger  swearing — the  damned  thing — like  the  rest  of  us — 
can't  go  straight — always  contrary — always 

He  looked  up,  a  swift,  troubled  look,  and  discovered  the 
old  woman  at  his  elbow. 

"Jack,  lad,"  she  said,  "You'm  waitin'.  Forgot  somethin' 
seemin'ly.  There's  the  telegraft  in  my  cabin — an'  it's  nigh  on 
tide  time.  You'm  wantin'  to " 

Elliott  drew  himself  together  with  a  jerky  fling  of  one  hand. 
"Aye,"  he  said,  "but  what  it  is  I've  forgotten  I  can't  think — 
it's  clean  gone.  Funny,  isn't  it?"  he  laughed. 

"  Baccy  ?  "  said  the  old  woman  eyeing  him. 

Elliott  slapped  his  pocket.  "No,"  he  decided,  "it's  not 
baccy." 

"Pipe?" 

"No — see,"  he  produced  it,  holding  it  up. 

"Arders?" 

"No;  I've  had  none — as  yet." 

"An'  Dunscombe  won't  be  givin'  none  this  mornen'?" 

"Have  you  seen  him?"  Elliott  flung  out.  "Are  you  sure 
he's  dead?  How  d'you  know?" 

"'Av  I  seen  en?  No,  Jack,  I  'avn't  seen  en  an'  don'  want. 
But  there's  a  many  as  'as.  Down  to  Garter  they  say  as  they 
can't  keep  folk  away  no  more  than  flies  off'n  meat.  Human 
natur'.  Aye  sure.  But  I  an't  seen  en." 

Elliott  still  stood  regarding  this  enigma  as  a  man  regards  a 
landscape,  far  off,  on  which  certain  figures  are  in  motion.  He 


io6  THE  ISSUE 

appeared  to  be  engaged  in  a  mental  argument,  a  calculation 
of  chances  from  which  the  gate-keeper  pulled  him  with  a  jerk. 

"If  you'm  bent  on  goin'  to  see  en,"  she  advised, '"go  when 
it's  dark — or  better  still  don't  you  go  at  all.  'Tain't  werf  it. 
Every  one  is  goin'  an'  comin'  past  'ere.  Traps,  carts,  barras — 
even  the  police — harse-police,  Jack.  Can't  keep  my  geats 
shut  for  'em.  I  'ear  'ee's  a  zight.  Cruel  'ard  he  was  on  'is 
hands.  A  chap  like  that  wouldn't  live  long  down  to  Darset — 
blame  if  'ee  would.  A  nasty,  lecherous,  w'eezy — Ah !  so  you'm 
goin'  balck  arter  all — good.  There  won't  be  no  work  to-day — 'n ' 
I  'aven't  sot  eyes  on  you,  Jack,  lad — mind  that. " 

Elliott  moved  down  the  road  in  a  species  of  dream.  The 
woman's  words  rang  in  his  brain ;  but  he  was  uncertain  of  their 
meaning.  Did  she  intend  to  warn  him — and  if  so,  why?  He 
had  struck  this  man.  He  had  seen  him  lying  there  stunned. 
Stunned  but  breathing.  He  was  very  certain  of  this  fact.  But 
suppose  by  chance  the  fellow  had  not  regained  consciousness 
— suppose  he  had  been  struck  on  some  vital  part  and  had  died — 
then 

Elliott  pushed  the  question  aside.  He  decided  it  was 
absurd,  impossible,  and  yet,  as  his  ears  had  heard,  down  there 
at  the  Garter  lay  evidence,  indisputable  evidence. 

He  moved  more  rapidly  down  the  road  and  came  to  a  crossing. 
On  the  left  were  the  marshes,  on  the  right  roads  all  converging 
on  Riverton.  It  seemed  at  this  moment  that  it  was  necessary 
to  think,  to  gain  time  and  thresh  this  matter  out — then  as  he 
halted  there  a  woman  moved  out  of  the  mists  coming  from  the 
river.  She  paused  on  seeing  him  and  drawing  near  said: 

"My  friend  of  the  other  night,  if  I  don't  mistake  you?" 

Elliott  met  her  gaze  with  that  new-born  desire  for  solitude 
lurking  in  his  eyes.  He  decided  that  this  woman  dressed  in 
black  and  wearing  round  her  neck  a  fur  boa,  also  of  black, 


MOTHER  KEYNE  107 

was  the  woman  of  the  woods  and  an  inquisitor.  She  stood 
before  him  with  her  quizzical  smile,  her  black  garments  accent- 
uating the  extreme  strawiness  of  her  hair,  obviously  uncertain 
of  his  identity.  Yet  he  could  not  bring  himself  to  deny  recol- 
lection— despite  the  fact  that  he  considered  it  necessary.  After 
a  moment  he  replied  in  the  affirmative:  "Yes;  that's  me. " 

The  woman  marked  his  confusion  but  took  no  heed.  "When 
I  met  you  the  other  night, "  she  smiled,  "I  had  no  idea  you  were 
a  sailor.  But  now  I  see  that  you  are  and  I  wonder  whether 
you  could  help  me  find  someone — he  is  a  sailor  also;  a  river 
captain,  I  believe — James  Saunderson. " 

"Jim  Saunderson?" 

"Ah!  I  see  you  know  him.  Tell  me — tell  me!"  She  stepped 
nearer,  holding  out  her  hands,  but  Elliott  had  no  desire  for 
this  or  any  conversation.  The  reply  had  slipped  before  he 
was  aware  how  much  it  implicated  him.  It  remained  therefore 
to  fence  with  this  woman,  to  bluff  her,  learn  whether  she  had 
been  near  the  Garter  and  give  nothing  in  return.  He  drew 
himself  together  with  an  effort. 

"In  a  way,"  he  replied.     "Yes,  I  have  heard  of  him." 

"Where,  here  or  in  Abbeyville?" 

"He  was  here,  but  I  believe  he  has  gone  north." 

"North?" 

"Aye — the  Tyne,  Shields  or  some  place  up  there."  Then, 
seeing  the  woman  searching  his  face,  "and — well,  as  I've  an- 
swered your  questions,  perhaps  you  wouldn't  mind  telling  me 
whether  you've  been  to  the  Garter?" 

The  woman  drew  back,  her  eyes  flashing.  "Every  one  is 
talking  of  that.  What  do  I  know  about  it?  Pardon — you 
were  kind  to  me  that  night.  Yes;  it  is  some  ship-owner,  a  hard 
rnan,  Dunscombe:  do  you  know  him?" 

"Is  he  dead?" 


io8  THE  ISSUE 

"Yes." 

Elliott  fumbled  with  the  buttons  of  his  coat.  He  glanced 
up  at  his  companion.  "Who — that  is,  how  did  it  come  about  ?  " 

The  woman  put  up  her  veil  and  again  smiled.  "I  am  not 
sure.  They  tell  me  he  was  knocked  down  and  is  cut  horribly. " 

"Any  word  of  who  did  it?" 

"  One  of  his  hands,  I  believe.    Why,  did  you  know  him  too  ?  " 

Despite  the  curious  numbness  which  surrounded  him  he  knew 
that  this  woman  was  watching  him  with  greedy  eyes,  taking  in 
details  of  his  appearance,  perhaps  marking  him  down  for  the 
future  description.  He  held  his  head  erect  therefore  and 
replied  again  with  an  evasion. 

"I  have  heard  of  him.  And  I  believe  he  was  a  hard  master, 
as  you  say.  Thanks — yes,  and  as  to  Saunderson,  I  don't 
know  how  long  he  will  remain  north.  I  scarcely  knew  much 
of  him  and  we  aren't  cousins.  He  wasn't  much  here — very 
few  of  us  are.  So — I  will  be  getting  along. " 

He  turned  on  his  heel  and  crossed  the  road. 

Out  there  in  the  yellowness  lay  the  marshes  and  silence. 
The  marshes  where  no  people  wandered  asking  questions, 
where  nothing  moved  but  the  shadows,  and  the  silence  was  the 
silence  of  those  who  are  asleep. 


CHAPTER  VI 
THE  WOMAN  PAYS 

TO  FIND  pleasure  in  the  marshes  lying  east  of  the  level 
crossing  one  needs  few  cares.  A  dog,  a  gun,  and 
brisk  weather  is  a  seductive  mixture — for  ground  game, 
snipe  and  widgeon  are  to  be  found  by  the  man  who  loves 
rough  shooting  and  who  has  the  necessary  permit;  but  Elliott 
was  not  of  these;  nor  was  the  weather  exactly  heartening.  In 
point  of  fact  it  was  abominable.  The  ground  had  arrived  at 
that  stage  when  the  absorption  of  more  moisture  was  impossible. 
When,  if  you  moved  from  certain  beaten  tracks  you  stood  a  very 
fair  chance  of  never  moving  again  without  assistance. 

But  these  were  considerations  of  no  weight  with  Elliott. 
He  knew  the  marshes  and,  on  the  other  hand,  had  gleaned 
some  knowledge  of  the  risks  he  ran  elsewhere.  He  preferred 
the  marshes. 

In  the  near  distance  a  quaint  old  hutch  reared  its  rugged 
outline  against  the  smoke-like  mist.  Beside  it  lay  a  ditch  of 
stagnant  water  edged  by  reeds.  Beyond  there  rolled  the 
marshes  of  the  Hundred  of  Hoo,  interspersed  with  ditches  and 
embankments,  astride  of  which  were  the  gates  which  began 
and  ended  there.  Elliott  moved  onward  shrouded  by  the  mist, 
at  liberty  to  smoke  or  walk  or  think  untroubled  by  the  ghost 
of  capture.  He  came  to  the  hutch  and  entered. 

From  an  artistic  point  of  view  the  thing  left  nothing  to  be 
desired;  but  art  and  comfort  frequently  roll  wide  as  the  hills. 
This  picturesque  hutch  was  simply  the  inverted  hull  of  an 

109 


no  THE  ISSUE 

ancient  ketch  or  bawlie-boy*  set  on  two  tiers  of  bricks,  a  fire 
place  at  one  end,  a  door  at  the  other.  In  summer  it  was  used 
occasionally  by  the  shepherds,  sometimes  formed  a  snuggery 
for  the  marsh  bailiffs,  sometimes  a  rendezvous  for  tramps. 
No  one  inhabited  it  permanently.  Some  enterprising  fisher- 
man had  built  it  long  ago  and,  when  he  died,  the  owner  of  the 
marshes  called  it  his. 

Here  at  all  events  Elliott  was  secure  for  hours — for 
in  the  fog  then  regnant  he  knew  no  marsh  bailiff  nor 
shepherd  would  be  abroad.  Here  he  would  have  time 
to  formulate  some  plan,  time  to  arrange  how  he  might 
warn  Susie  of  what  had  happened.  He  sat  down  amidst  a 
litter  of  straw,  head  sunk,  eyes  searching  the  doorway  for 
possible  intruders. 

A  long  while  he  remained  thus,  a  strained  look  on  a  face 
betokening  youth  and  immunity  from  care;  a  look  becoming 
nervously  expectant  under  its  new  burden.  Dunscombe  was 
dead.  He  acknowledged  that  this  fact  stood.  It  was  useless 
to  deny  it.  And  if  Dunscombe  was  dead,  then  it  was  possible 
he  had  killed  him.  It  was  the  natural  sequence,  the  corollary 
of  his  action — yet,  for  a  moment,  it  appeared  impossible. 
Again,  on  consideration,  he  found  it  possible — a  difference  in 
terms  that  struck  him  as  being  out  of  all  proportion  to  the 
weight  of  hazard  involved. 

Once  more  he  leaned  forward,  searching  his  memory  for  the 
order  of  events  as  they  occurred  that  night.  Dunscombe  met 
him,  jeering  and  ordering  him  as  though  he  were  a  dog.  Dun- 
scombe, when  he  had  retaliated  in  some  small  measure, 
broached  this  question  of  "doing  a  bit  on  his  own"  as  they 
phrase  it,  and  he  had  denied  it — blusteringly,  angrily.  Then 
Dunscombe  had  called  him  a  liar  and  a  thief  and  he  had  struck 

*  Shrimper. 


THE  WOMAN  PAYS  in 

him  down.  "As  I  would  strike  him  again — now,  by  God!  if 
he  called  me  a  liar  and  a  thief. " 

Elliott  rose  from  his  seat  and  gave  emphasis  to  his  opinion: 
"As  I  would  strike  any  man  who  called  me  a  liar  and  a  thief — 

as .     Sst!    The  man  is  dead — dead — and  I .    What's 

that?" 

He  moved  to  the  small  window  and  set  it  wide.  The  fog 
streamed  in.  He  discovered  a  group  of  plover  whirling  about 
the  hutch  seeking  a  new  pitch.  Nothing  else.  All  fog  and 
steam  and  mist.  The  world  a-sweat  with  the  burden  it  bore 
— nothing  else.  Again  he  returned  to  his  seat  and  again  after 
a  lapse  of  time  crept  to  the  window.  Nothing — only  the  gulls, 
the  plover  and  silence;  a  silence  that  penetrated  as  the  fog  pene- 
trated and  was  as  productive  of  shadows. 

He  returned  to  his  seat,  taking  himself  to  task.  What  a 
coward  he  had  become.  How  easily  he  trembled.  He  swore 
softly  this  was  not  so — that  he  had  cause,  cause  sufficient  to 
break  the  heart  of  a  statue. 

Dunscombe  was  dead.  If  this  thing  were  true  then  was 
it  not  possible  the  blow  he  had  struck  had  killed  him.  Mother 
Keyne,  the  old  gate-keeper,  had  hinted  pretty  plainly  her  view 
of  the  affair.  Or  was  it  her  view  ?  Was  it  not  possible  that  she 
had  heard  something  and  intended  to  warn  him?  Of  course 

it  was  possible — yet No — no — the  thing  was  impossible — 

he  announced  it  plainly  staring  at  the  gap  in  the  roof.  Then, 
if  that  were  so,  came  in  mocking  comment,  why  was  he  in 
hiding?  Why  did  he  cower  there  when  he  should  be  at  the 
river  attending  his  work? 

He  played  into  these  people's  hands  by  remaining  hidden. 
It  was  suicide.  He  must  get  out  and  face  it — face  it.  That 
was  the  only  thing  a  man  could  do  without  shame. 

"Face  it!"    He  rose  at  the  word  and  crossed  towards  the 


ii2  THE  ISSUE 

door.  Then,  driving  him  back,  thwarting  him,  came  the  know- 
ledge that  Susie  awaited  his  return  that  night  at  Swinfleet. 
That  if  he  faced  this  thing  now,  he  might  not  be  able  to  see  her 
or  explain  what  had  happened.  Others  would  do  that  for  him 
— people  who  desired  to  keep  them  apart.  No;  he  could  not 
face  it  yet.  He  must  see  Susie  first.  He  must  marry  her. 
That,  at  all  hazards,  was  a  duty  he  dared  not  postpone.  If  the 
worst  came,  and  she  desired  it,  he  must  marry  her  at  once,  and 
then — but  why  conjure  with  the  thing.  He  admitted  the 
absurdity,  but  it  stood  there  a  very  potent  force  to  hold  him 
tied  to  the  hutch  during  all  remaining  hours  of  daylight;  if 
he  would  see  Susie  again  in  freedom. 

Nine  hours  on  the  marshes,  not  with  dog  and  gun,  but  with 
misery  for  companion;  nine  hours  listening  for  footsteps  which 
never  came,  searching  out  the  genesis  of  those  sounds  which 
at  intervals  smote  him;  nine  hours  fasting,  dragging  at  the 
essential  facts  which  dogged  him — a  man  need  be  strong  to 
stand  so  severe  a  strain  and  remain  steadfast  to  the  resolve  he 
had  formed. 

He  had  come  into  that  solitude  for  thought  and  to  avoid  a 
capture  which  at  the  moment  appeared  barely  feasible,  and 
with  thought  had  come  this  dread  thing,  this  sequence  of  events 
which  bore  down  upon  him,  baffled  him,  and  kept  him  prisoner 
against  his  will. 

He  questioned  of  the  four  walls:  What  had  he  done  to  bring 
this  misery  into  the  life  of  a  girl  he  admittedly  loved  ?  But  no 
answer  came  to  cheer  him,  only  the  eternal  cry  of  the  gulls,  and 
the  swirl  of  their  wings  as  they  passed  the  hutch.  The  hours 
dragged  on.  Sometimes  the  man  leaned  forward  dozing, 
sometimes  stood  watching  the  marsh  tracks  converging  on  the 
hutch,  sometimes  paced  to  and  fro  the  narrow  floor.  It  grew 
late.  Elliott  came  to  the  door  and  looked  out.  The  silence 


THE  WOMAN  PAYS  113 

was  maintained.  The  land  retained  its  curtain.  The  gulls 
were  fewer  in  number. 

The  sun  had  vanished  from  a  sky  it  had  not  touched  since 
dawn  when  at  length  Elliott  emerged  from  his  shelter.  He 
walked  down  the  sodden  walls,  feeling  the  path  with  a  stake. 
Movement  freshened  him.  He  was  on  his  way  to  greet  Susie 
and  to  tell  her — his  news. 

He  came  to  the  lane  where,  that  morning,  he  had  met  and 
fenced  with  the  inquisitor  of  the  woods.  It  was  silent  now — 
silent  as  the  marshes  had  been.  Up  there  perhaps  a  mile  dis- 
tant was  the  old  gate-keeper  with  her  bundle  of  fog  signals  and 
her  flag;  farther  still,  the  river  with  its  burden  of  shipping  and 
ebbing  stream.  Had  it  not  been  for  Susie,  at  this  moment  he 
would  have  passed  straight  and  swii't  to  the  river  and  there, 
shrouded  by  the  fog,  would  have  made  his  way  to  some  land 
where  a  man  had  chances — the  land  of  which  we  always  prate 
when  misfortune  strikes  us  in  our  own. 

Up  the  lanes,  shadowed  by  the  trees  and  sunk  in  fog;  along 
a  desolate  stretch  of  highroad,  avoiding  the  glare  of  lamps  set 
now  to  hinder  him,  and  so  to  the  edge  of  the  town.  One 
street  he  was  compelled  to  face.  In  the  morning  he  had  trav- 
ersed it  humming  a  tune,  now  he  traversed  it  seeing  pursuers 
at  every  corner.  Already  he  had  run  the  gauntlet  of  a  dozen 
imaginary  captures  when  someone  clutched  him  by  the  arm. 

He  swung  free  with  a  savage  gesture. 

"What  do  you  want?    Stand  back!"  he  cried. 

''Whisht!  how  you  jump  to  be  sure.  Sonny,  take  us  home; 
it's  cruel  cold  on  the  streets  to-night.  You  won't — then  stand 
us  so'thin'.  O  Gawd,  it's  cold." 

"Out  of  my  way,  what  the  devil  do  you  mean?" 

"My  word,  if  it  ain't  Jack  Elliott!" 

"Well?" 


ii4  THE  ISSUE 

He  halted  quickly  enough  now,  but  with  one  arm  raised  to 
strike.  The  girl  laughed  quietly. 

"You  don't  mind  me,"  she  whispered,  "not  you.  But 
Dolly  Crassley  isn't  the  gell  to  ferget  them  as  has  done  her  a 
turn.  You  mind  the  row  at  the  door  of  the  Scorpion,  Jack? 
I  know  you  do.  Well,  it's  my  turn  now.  Hist !  you'' re  -wanted — 
an'  there's  a  peeler  a  top  of  the  street." 

"Wanted?  Ah,  I  might  have  known  it."  He  mopped  at 
his  forehead,  standing  irresolute.  The  girl  stared. 

"Then  w'y  are  you  here?"  she  questioned.  "'Tain't  safe. 
Walk  beside  me  to  the  turnin'.  I've  got  a  room  there." 

"I  am  bound  to  see  some  one,"  he  explained;  "I  must  go 
out " 

"Someone  wot  spells  miss  before  'er  name?"  she  questioned 
swiftly.  "Nay,  don't  start  an' swear,  sonny.  I'm  not  so  black 
as  I'm  painted.  It's  nat'ral  you  should  want  to  see  her;  but, 
I'm  tellin'  you,  don't  you  go  townways.  Keep  in  the  dark, 
an'  if  there's  lamps  about,  wait  till  the  fog  smothers  'em.  How 
did  it  come  about,  sonny?" 

"He  called  me  a  liar  and  a  thief  and  I  struck  htm." 

"Haigh!  you're  right.    You  shouldn't  be  so  strong." 

They  reached  the  house  unseen  and  the  girl  pushed  him 
within.  "Stay  there,"  she  whispered,  "while  I  look  round. 
No — they  might  tear  the  tongue  out  of  me  mouth  afore  I'd  say 
a  word  to  get  you  took.  They  don't  love  me — I  don't  love  them. 
They  hustle — I  give  'em  the  go-bye — stay  quiet." 

She  left  him  standing  and  passed  into  the  street.  From 
somewhere  upstairs  came  the  noise  of  glasses  and  the  pop  of 
a  drawn  cork.  A  woman  laughed  and  in  the  ensuing  silence  it 
seemed  that  all  things  happened — capture,  trial,  judgment, 
yet  when  the  girl  returned  Elliott  acknowledged  he  still  was 
safe. 


THE  WOMAN  PAYS  115 

"All  clear,"  she  said  in  answer;  "how  far  are  you  goin'?" 

"Swinfleet." 

"It's  miles — goin'  to  walk  it?" 

"Yes." 

The  girl  examined  him  in  the  dim  light.  "I  like  your 
pluck,"  she  announced,  then  after  a  moment's  hesitation: 
"'Ere — can  you  bike?" 

"Yes." 

"Got  any  machine?" 

"Not  here." 

"Right;  I'll  find  you  one.    Stay  quiet." 

She  left  him  again  and  in  five  minutes  returned  wheeling 
a  cycle.  "It's  a  gell's,"  she  explained,  "my  chum's — her  wot's 
laughin'  upstairs.  You  can  ride  it,  I  doubt?  She's  as  tall 
as  you.  Good — leave  it  in  this  shed  when  you  come  back. 
So-long,  sonny — aye — fer  the  sake  of  wot  you  done  fer  me — 
so-long." 

She  touched  him  on  the  shoulder  and  was  gone. 

Who  was  she  ?  No  one — worse  than  no  one.  Just  a  tows- 
led  young  daughter  of  the  gutter  in  her  prime  and  with  as 
keen  a  hatred  of  wedlock  since  her  man  had  left  her,  as  to  the 
manner  born.  An  impossible  person?  Perhaps — yet  re- 
member the  appaling  conditions  in  which  she  moved. 

Sixteen  years  of  draggle-tailed  existence,  then  marriage.  A 
marriage  of  the  slums,  carried  out  in  slum  fashion  with  lavish 
supplies  of  beer.  Six  months  later,  brutal  usage,  desertion, 
motherhood.  At  the  end  of  twelve,  childless  and  driven  to  the 
streets  for  sustenance.  Who  was  she  ?  This  and  many  other 
things  quite  impossible  of  narration. 

Elliott  passed  on  now  in  full  knowledge  of  the  peril  in  which 
he  stood.  No  longer  came  those  questions  which  had  tor- 
tured him.  Dunscombe  was  dead  and  he  was  wanted  for  the 


n6  THE  ISSUE 

murder.  He  moved  in  a  dream.  The  way  was  peopled  with 
shadows  flitting  ghost-like  to  harass  him,  angling  to  take  him 
unawares. 

Without  a  light,  keeping  steadily  to  the  centre  of  the  road  he 
passed  cautiously  through  the  fog.  Once  a  passenger  cross- 
ing the  track  complained  of  his  unmannerly  approach;  but 
Elliott  swerved  wide  and  held  on  his  way  till  Riverton  and  its 
traffic  were  left  behind.  Then  on — more  swiftly  now — down 
that  highroad  which  should  cany  him  to  Swinfleet ;  on  through 
the  grim,  dark  night,  eyes  concentrated  on  the  track,  ears  alert 
for  passing  carts,  head  bent,  on  through  the  stillness,  the  raw 
air  invigorating  him,  the  soft  swish  of  the  tyres  inspiring  him, 
the  picture  of  Susie  standing  there  before  him  as  a  guide — on 
till  out  of  the  murk  there  came  the  thud  of  a  horse's  hoofs  and 
a  lantern  shone  in  his  eyes. 

"What  are  you  doing  without  lights,  eh?"  came  the  question 
to  annoy  him.  Then  with  a  swift  turn  the  horseman  was 
passed  and  Elliott  riding  for  freedom. 

''Halt  there,  in  the  King's  name!"  sounded  from  the  rear- 
ward veil  of  fog.  "Halt!  I  say." 

The  constable  had  turned  and  was  riding  to  overtake  him. 
The  hoof  sounds  came  up  to  Elliott  now  with  the  rythmic 
swing  of  a  gallop.  He  would  be  ridden  down  at  that  pace.  A 
stone  in  the  road,  a  ruck,  and  he  would  be  at  his  enemy's  mercy 
— he  who  was  wanted,  and  for  whom  they  searched. 

In  a  moment  he  swerved,  slowed  and  drew  up  beside  the 
hedge.  The  horseman  passed  on  swearing. 

Then  again  in  the  silence,  swiftly  pushing  his  machine,  Elliott 
doubled  on  his  tracks,  came  round  to  a  bye  road  and  rode  once 
more  for  Swinfleet.  So,  onward,  till  the  lane  widened,  the 
trees  fell  away  and  the  glare  from  the  cottage  loomed  yellow 
close  at  hand. 


THE  WOMAN  PAYS  117 

A  girl  stood  near  the  uncurtained  window — Susie  waiting 
for  him  and  straining  her  eyes  in  the  fog.  The  light  from  the 
lamp  shone  on  her  red-gold  hair.  He  sprang  from  his  machine, 
unlatched  the  gate  and  entered.  Susie  started  at  his  approach 
and  screened  her  eyes. 

"Oh,  it's  Jack — it's  Jack!"  she  cried.  And  in  a  moment, 
despite  his  signal  for  caution,  the  door  was  thrown  wide  and 
Susie  lay  in  his  arms.  "My  darling,"  she  whispered.  "How 
late  you  are  and  how  wet!" 

"Hist,  deary!" 

"Why?  There's  no  one  here,  only  me.  And  I  have  been 
waiting  for  you — waiting.  Do  you  understand?  Aunty's 
out — listening  to  uncle,  who  is  on  the  village  council,  you  know, 
and  I  am  all  alone.  So  horribly  alone.  Come  in,  dear  heart, 
come  in." 

He  glanced  over  his  shoulder,  staring  into  the  fog  he  had 
escaped.  "Turn  down  the  light,  Susie,  and  draw  the  curtains 
— else  I  can't." 

She  watched  him  with  a  quizzical  glance,  half  of  laughter, 
half  of  coquetry.  "Can't?  Silly  boy.  Why,  who  do  you 
think  will  be  spying  on  us  in  this  quiet  place?  But  you  shall 
have  your  way."  She  entered  the  room,  drew  the  curtains, 
extinguished  the  lamp  and  returned.  "There,  will  that  do? 

Is  it  dark  enough — dark  enough  for  you  to  see  to Jack, 

dear,"  she  continued  drawing  back  and  looking  in  his  face, 
"do  you  know — that  you  have  forgotten  to — to " 

Her  lips  framed  for  kisses  quivered  beneath  his  own.  He 
caught  her  to  him,  folding  her  in  his  arms  with  a  passion  that 
was  terrible  to  remember  and  his  cry  rang  out:  "Oh  God! 
my  lass,  my  lass!" 

She  turned  to  him  now  and  stood  smoothing  back  his  hair. 
That  something  was  wrong  she  knew  intuitively.  She  kissed 


nS  THE  ISSUE 

him  on  the  lips.  "What  is  it,  dear?"  she  begged,  "tell  me — 
tell  me." 

He  blurted  the  thing,  his  face  buried  in  her  hair.  "There 
is  trouble  in  the  wind,  Susie,  and  I " 

"Then  we  must  meet  it,"  she  reminded  him. 

"We  can't,  Susie — it's  me — me." 

"In  a  few  days  we  shall  be  one,"  she  decided  flushing. 

"I  daren't  wait  for  that.  If  we  are  to  be  married — if  you 
still  want  me  when  you  know — we  must  be  married  at  once. 
Somewhere — God  knows  where." 

She  shook  back  her  hair  and  smiled.  The  fire  light  fell  on 
a  face  as  white  as  the  blouse  she  wore,  yet  she  smiled.  "If — 
if — what  have  I  done,  Jack,  to  make  you  doubt  me?  When 
I  know — and  if!  Jack,  what  is  it?" 

"I'm  wanted,  lass.     Wanted." 

The  words  were  said  but  she  looked  at  him  no  wiser. 
"Wanted,  Jack?" 

"Aye.  Understand  me — this  is  no  paltry  business,  nothing 
to  snivel  over  and  done  with.  It's  trouble — big  and  definite 
Susie — Dunscombe's  dead." 

Silence  ensued;  cold,  torturing,  pregnant  with  sorrow.  Jack 
holding  the  girl  close,  holding  her  crushed,  Susie  looking  up 
and  striving  in  the  darkness  to  read  his  eyes.  At  length  she 
spoke:  "Dunscombe  dead?  Well,  what  has  that  to  do  with 
us?" 

"I  struck  him,  Susie— I " 

"Oh!  but  Jack,  Jack!  I'll  not  believe  it.  I  will  not  believe 
it — you  didn't  try — that  is " 

"No,  no!  As  God  is  my  witness  I  meant  to  hit  him.  I 
meant  to  knock  him  down  if  I  could.  Why?  Because  he 
called  me  a  liar  and  a  thief.  Those  were  his  words  and  I  laid 
him  out." 


THE  WOMAN  PAYS  119 

"My  darling — I  knew  it."  She  had  come  through  darkness 
into  light.  Her  eyes  gleamed.  She  clung  to  him  caressing 
his  brow  with  one  hand,  but  she  clung  trembling. 

"It  was  all  about  a  bit  of  pluck  I  gave  your  father,"  he  ex- 
plained; "it  happened  some  time  ago.  How  he  knew  of  it 
passes  me  by.  But  he  did  know — and  I  must  run  if  I  am  to 
marry  you — understand?" 

"Wait,"  she  begged.     "Tell  me    ...    let  me  think." 

He  complied,  speaking  fast  and  with  a  nervous  insistence 
that  was  painful  to  hear:  "As  you  will.  This  is  what  hap- 
pened. It's  a  month  ago — more.  I'm  lying  on  the  tide  wait- 
ing for  a  job  when  the  Tantalus  came  driving  past.  She  doesn't 
steer  as  handy  as  she  did  and  the  old  man  looks  like  driving 
ashore  on  the  Nore.  We  weren't  twenty  yards  away.  It's 
dead  calm.  And  I  dropped  under  the  bow  and  plucked  her 
into  deeper  water.  There  was  never  any  question  of  towing, 
or  payment — and  now  the  Guv'nor  looks  me  in  the  face  and 
says  I  squared  it — took  a  crown  from  the  old  man  and  never 
reported  it. 

"What  did  I  say?  Psh!  I  was  mad — I  was  mad.  He 
had  given  me  jaw  before  he  broke  ground  over  this.  I  told 
him  it  was  a  lie.  Then  he  said  he  would  prosecute  me  and 
called  me  a  liar  and  a  thief.  That's  what  passed,  as  God  is 
my  Judge." 

"I  knew  it,  darling.    You  are  not  to  blame." 

"But  I'm  wanted,  Susie — and  I  must  run." 

"Why?     Surely,  surely  it  is  better  to  face  it." 

"I  daren't — not  if  we  are  to  be  married.  It  may  take 
months  if  once  I  give  up — I  might  be  locked  up  a  year;  it 
would  be  a  jury  case — assizes  and  all  the  rest." 

"Jack!  you  must  face  it." 

The  girl  was  white  to  the  tips  of  her  ears.    She  clung  to  him 


120  THE  ISSUE 

now,  her  lips  quivering,  her  arms  twined  about  his  neck.  He 
strove  for  release.  The  helplessness  of  his  position  assailed 
him  and  he  broke  out  passionately: 

"Don't  make  it  harder,  lass.  Better  let  me  go.  I've  got 
the  luck  of  the  devil — the  luck  of  the  devil.  Chuck  me.  Tell 
me  you  never  want  to  see  me  again,  and  I'll  walk  in  and  face 
them.  Face  them  and  let  them  prove  what  they  will " 

"Jack!  I  love  you — I  love  you!" 

"Men  call  me  by  an  ugly  name,"  he  groaned;  "there's  none 
worse." 

"You  are  my  husband,"  she  whispered  still  holding  him. 

"Your  husband's  life  isn't  worth  the  snuff  of  a  candle,  Susie. 
Look  it  square  in  the  face.  Suppose  they  found  extenuating 
circumstances — how  does  that  better  me?  It's  manslaughter 
then — that  any  good  to  me  or  you?  Better  hang  and  have 
done  with  it — better " 

"Don't — don't.  My  darling!"  she  cried  in  a  passion  of 
tears. 

"God  love  you!"  he  faltered,  the  sight  of  her  agony  stifling 
him.  "Hold  on.  I'm  wrong.  I  had  no  right  to  tell  you  that; 
it  might  never  come.  But,  Susie,  it's  what  I've  got  to  face  and 
if  we  are  to  be  married  first,  I  must  run.  There's  no  other  way 
of  doing  it.  Is  there?" 

She  clung  to  him,  hiding  her  face  on  his  shoulder.  She 
shook  her  head,  but  she  sobbed  more  quietly. 

"Susie,"  he  went  on,  "we  must  be  married — must,"  he 
reiterated,  taking  her  by  the  arms  and  looking  into  her  face. 
"I  must  get  across  the  water.  Susie,  I'm  quitting  Riverton 
to-night  by  the  only  way  left  open.  By  river.  I  have  no  other 
chance — the  patrols  are  out,  the  police  are  after  me — met  me 
coming  here;  but  to-morrow  I'll  be  across  if  I  have  to  row 
every  mile  of  the  way.  I  know  Antwerp,  Havre,  Dieppe — any 


THE  WOMAN  PAYS  lax 

of  them  will  suit  my  book  —  and  then  we  can  talk  about  facing 


She  put  up  her  hand  and  checked  him.  "You  will  take  me, 
Jack?"  she  whispered. 

"I  can't,  lass.    Not  to-night.    It's  impossible." 

The  girl  restrained  her  tears.  She  pushed  him  from  her 
and  stood  there  white  and  drooping.  "Go,  darling,"  she 
begged.  "  Go.  I  must  not  keep  you  —  go,  while  I  am  strong." 

"I  will  write  from  foreign,  Susie.  Letters  to  Riverton  post 
office  —  you  understand?" 

She  nodded  gravely,  her  face  in  shadow. 

"You  shall  follow  me  out,  dear.  I've  got  some  money. 
I'll  write  about  it.  Susie,  I  must  go  —  I  must  go." 

They  stood  a  moment  locked  in  each  other's  arms,  then  Susie 
drew  back.  "God  bless  you,  Jack,"  she  faltered. 

"God  love  you,  lass." 

Night  received  him. 


COe  Etoet  of  Life 

CHAPTER  I 

INQUISITORIAL 

THREE  days  fog,  then  a  gale  of  wind.     This   was   the 
order  of  things,  and  the  day  of  the  gale  was  also  the 
day  of  the  inquest. 

The  pier  hotel  was  crowded,  the  air  reeking  with  the  odour 
of  strong  tobacco  and  mixed  drinks.  Outside  the  wind  howled 
without  ceasing,  the  river  combed  savagely  on  the  flood,  and, 
at  high  water,  sloshed  over  the  sea-wall  and  fell  in  columns  of 
spray  on  the  seats  before  the  hotel.  Upstairs,  in  a  long  and 
low-ceiled  room,  sat  the  Coroner  and  his  Court  and  before  them 
stood  or  lounged  a  group  of  eager  listeners,  water-side  folk 
with  one  exception — Tony  Crow. 

A  dreary  business  done  on  a  dreary  day  in  the  old,  stupid 
fashion  so  dear  to  the  hearts  of  Englishmen,  was  in  full  swing. 
Micky  Doolan  was  there,  Win'bag  Saunderson,  the  black- 
smith, the  mate  who  had  rowed  Elliott  ashore  in  the  fog,  the 
skipper  of  the  barge  which  lay  that  night  aground — all  were 
there,  and  all  had  spoken  after  their  diverse  fashions.  Elliott 
alone  was  missing.  Where  was  this  man,  Elliott?  All  the 
evidence  turned  on  Elliott — who  knew  anything  of  his  move- 
ments? Apparently,  no  one. 

123 


I24  THE  ISSUE 

His  landlady,  described  in  the  generic  term  "old  woman," 
spoke  in  whispers  as  she  related  incidents  bearing  on  nothing 
in  particular  and  with  the  accompaniment  of  gross  circumlocu- 
tion. Perhaps  only  one  or  two  facts  were  noticeable  in  her 
remarks:  they  bore  on  Elliott's  good  nature.  He  was  a  good 
lad,  there  was  no  two  ways  about  that.  He  never  troubled  no 
one;  he  was  always  kind  and  regular;  likewise  his  reckonin'  was 
paid  on  the  nail.  He  left  home  a  Sunday  mornin',  sayin'  he 
was  bound  away  to  a  job  on  the  river.  Since  that  she  had  not 
set  eyes  on  him. 

His  mate  spoke  to  the  fact  that  there  was  no  job  on  the  river 
on  Sunday — he  minded  it,  because  he  was  on  board  with  his 
wife  that  day,  who,  bein'  new-married,  wanted  to  see  the  boat. 
He  never  set  eyes  on  the  skipper  all  day.  Yaas,  he  rowed 
him  ashore  on  Saturday  night.  It  was  as  thick  as  peas  puddin' ; 
he  knew  that  for  he  was  nigh  on  three  hours  findin'  his  road 
back  to  the  tug — but  he  heard  the  row  on  the  wall.  Least- 
ways, part  of  it  he  heard — not  all.  Yaas,  it  was  Dunscombe 
the  row  was  with. 

The  skipper  of  the  barge  testified  in  similar  fashion  but  am- 
plified his  remarks  by  stating  more  particularly  the  details  of 
the  row.  Damning  evidence,  every  word. 

Micky  Doolan  spoke  also  to  the  finding,  with  a  tongue  which 
tripped  sadly  after  his  recent  debauch.  He  knew  every  sen- 
tence by  heart  and  told  it  with  great  reluctance.  But  they 
dragged  it  from  him  bit  by  bit,  and  at  length  he  was  ordered, 
with  some  asperity,  to  stand  down. 

The  evidence  stood  solid,  unutterably  solid,  damning  for 
Elliott.  Only  Tony  Crow  of  all  the  bunch  had  ventured  any 
extended  refutation  of  the  exultant  police  testimony,  and  he 
naturally  was  looked  upon  with  suspicion. 

"  What  did  he  knaw  abaht  it  ?    No  so  much — but  he  had  had 


INQUISITORIAL  125 

eexperience  o'  keekin',  an'  wi'  their  gude  leaves,  yon  was  dun 
wi'  nowt  but  clogs.  How  did  he  knaw?  He'didn't  knaw;  but 
eexperience  had  taught  Tony  mony  things.  Were  ah  there? 
Na — ah  were  not  there — ah  were  at  t'  smeethy. " 

Why  then  was  he  occupying  the  time  of  the  court  ? 

"Because  ah  have  ma  doots." 

"Doubts!  Who  ever  heard  of  such  twaddle.  Doubts  are 
not  evidence.  Stand  down. " 

So  the  tall,  simple-hearted  blacksmith  stood  down,  and 
twisted  his  cap  monotonously  as  he  listened.  The  Coroner 
now  addressed  the  jury,  and  the  jury  having  agreed  without 
any  further  inquiry  into  the  mythical  region  of  Tony's  doubts, 
the  inquest  was  adjourned  and  the  police  once  more  breathed 
freely.  They  recognised  that  their  case  was  won,  a  desider- 
atum as  all  men  are  ready  to  acknowledge,  therefore  it  was 
only  in  the  nature  of  things  that  they  should  show  an  exultant 
face. 

All  this  was  done  on  the  day  of  the  gale,  succeeding  the  fog, 
within  sound  of  the  wailing  horns  on  the  river,  amidst  the 
blather  and  spume  of  an  angry  Thames,  some  half-mile  distant 
from  the  ditch  with  its  stagnant  water  and  ugly  crimson  stains. 
And  the  business  of  the  hotel  was  amazingly  brisk.  For  in- 
quests are  productive  of  talk,  of  speculation,  of  an  inquisitive 
tribe  of  men;  and  these  things,  in  turn,  are  productive  of  smoke 
and  the  guzzling  of  some  astonishingly  bad  liquor. 

It  fell  so  on  this  occasion:  and  on  the  day  of  the  adjourned 
inquiry,  the  memory  of  the  people  who  sold  was  ransacked,  in 
vain  for  an  equally  propitious  event. 

On  this  day  a  verdict  of  wilful  murder  was  returned  against 
Elliott,  and  Tony  Crow  went  back  to  the  smithy  a  wrathful 
and  discredited  man. 

But  the  hero  of  all  this  clack  had  vanished. 


CHAPTER  II 

SUTCLIFFE'S  RETURN 

A  FOG  was  growing  as  the  Tantalus  drove  slowly  to  her 
berth  at  the  foot  of  the  Reach  which  winds  past 
quiet  Abbeyville.  George  Sutcliffe  navigated  her,  gave 
orders  to  her  meagre  crew,  steered,  and  from  time  to  time 
stared  out  under  the  foot  of  the  mainsail  to  discover  in  the  blur 
of  smoke  and  fog  lying  over  the  village,  that  trim  girl  form 
which  never  yet  had  failed  to  welcome  him. 

He  was  hungry  always,  on  these  homeward  trips,  for  the  first 
glimpse  of  his  daughter.  He  looked  for  her  presence — but 
to-day  Susie  had  not  appeared  at  the  foot  of  the  little  garden. 
Therefore,  for  some  reason,  she  had  not  expected  him,  and 
had  remained  at  home.  His  wife  also  would  be  at  home.  But 
Sutcliffe  did  not  think  of  his  wife — he  thought  only  of  Susie. 

He  was  a  tall  man,  slightly  bent  in  form,  wearing  the  curly, 
and  now  iron-gray,  ringlets  of  the  old-time  coasting  skipper, 
beneath  his  blue-peaked  cap.  He  had  the  air  of  one  who  has 
struggled  and  has  been  quite  effectually  beaten.  His  second 
marriage  had  brought  into  his  eyes  the  look  one  sees  in  the 
face  of  all  sufferers.  He  no  longer  had  hope.  He  moved  in 
a  circle  of  events  each  of  which  might  end  matters  without 
warning.  Indeed,  had  it  not  been  for  Susie  he  would  have 
sunk  beneath  the  fierce  waters  and  moved  to  that  long  home 
of  his,  unsorrowfully. 

But  the  girl  was  a  link  with  the  past  which  no  stretched 
misery  could  sever.  The  thought  of  her  pretty  face  and  win- 

126 


SUTCLIFFE'S  RETURN  127 

ning  child-ways,  buoyed  him  on  his  voyage  and  tied  him  to  the 
old  home,  as  frequently  a  baby  voice  and  innocent  laughter 
will  tie  man  to  the  impossible. 

Meanwhile  the  brig  arrived  at  her  anchorage.  Sutcliffe 
saw  her  moored,  landed  and  went  up  the  pier.  He  decided 
mentally  that  Susie  must,  for  some  reason,  be  at  the  vicarage. 
Then,  as  he  walked  the  village  street,  giving  "What  cheer, 
skipper,"  and  "What  ho,  mate,"  to  one  and  another  of  his 
acquaintances,  he  noticed  how  the  people  standing  gossiping  at 
their  doors,  turned  to  watch  him  as  he  passed. 

There  had  been  a  time  when  this  would  have  caused  him  to 
pause,  but  not  now.  In  these  days  he  was  accustomed  to 
trouble  and  now  he  failed  to  connect  their  behaviour  with 
himself  in  any  way.  Besides,  since  his  second  marriage,  he 
had  learned  that  silence  is  discretion ;  that  to  see,  and  not  to  see, 
is  sometimes  wisdom. 

He  stepped  across  the  little  garden  and  stood  in  the  doorway 
of  his  home.  It  was  dreary  and  silent.  Out  in  the  back,  he 
caught  the  sound  of  scrubbing,  and  the  click  of  iron-ringed 
pattens — signals  unmistakable,  to  Sutcliffe,  that  his  wife  was 
on  the  war  path.  He  shut  the  door  quietly  and,  entering  the 
kitchen,  sat  down  in  the  dismal  light  of  a  flickering  oil  lamp 
to  smoke  his  pipe.  Susie  must  certainly  be  at  the  vicarage. 
His  pipe  was  a  solace. 

But  he  was  not  long  left  in  peace.  The  odour  of  burning 
tobacco  found  its  way  outside.  Mrs.  Sutcliffe  offered  many 
resentful  remarks  to  the  neighbouring  back  yards,  then,  unable 
to  locate  the  nuisance,  opened  the  kitchen  door  and  looked  in. 

Sutcliffe  smoked  on  without  speaking. 

"Lawd!"  cried  the  woman  with  emphasis;  "wot  a  skear 
you  give  a  person  with  your  pipes  an'  smoke  an'  filth.  When 
did  you  come  in?" 


128  THE  ISSUE 

"A  while  ago." 

"How  long's  that?" 

"Not  so  long." 

"Not  so  long!  Haigh!  hear  'im.  Lissen  to  'im.  Here  he 
is  at  'ome — sittin'  still  as  a  stuffed  hog,  an'  all  the  world  a 
gapin'  at  him." 

Mrs.  Sutcliffe  bustled  energetically  about  the  room  dusting 
and  reversing  the  order  of  the  furniture.  Her  husband  smoked 
in  silence. 

"  'Deed,"  she  went  on,  with  a  pause  of  infinite  scorn  as  she 
viewed  her  partner's  bald  head,  "  'Deed,  but  there's  no  fule 
like  an  old  fule.  Lawd!  if  I  were  a  man  I  wouldn't  sit  down 
an'  twiddle  me  thumbs.  I'd  ack — that's  wot  I'd  do. " 

Several  sniffs  followed  this  assertion.  They  were  the  only 
sounds  in  the  kitchen  for  some  minutes.  Outside  the  wind 
moaned  without  ceasing  and  the  river  broke  sorrowfully  on  the 
foreshore.  But  Sutcliffe's  eyes  were  shut. 

"Gells  is  like  calves,"  his  wife  continued  argumentatively. 
"You  must  ring  'em  if  you  want  to  lead  'em.  That's  wot  I  say, 
an'  it's  wot  I'd  do  with  every  lass  risin'  seventeen,  if  I  'ad  my 
way.  Why  would  I?"  she  asked  in  a  querulous  treble,  al- 
though her  husband  had  made  no  remark.  "Because  Satan 
goeth  about  like  a  roarin'  lion,  Capting  Sutcliffe,  seekin'  whom 
he  may  devour.  It's  [writ  in  the  Book,  an'  Mr.  Slowboy 
brought  it  before  us  last  Sunday  most  forcible.  Sometimes 
Satan  taketh  untoe  himself  the  form  of  a  young  man  with  a 
black  mastache,  an'  great  is  the  fall  thereof. " 

Mrs.  Sutcliffe's  reminiscences  of  Bible  lore,  taken  from  the 
lips  of  this  spectacled  divine,  who  eschewed  clerical  garments 
and  boldly  preached  in  his  work-a-day  clothes,  had  no  effect 
on  the  old  man.  He  was  accustomed  to  pulverised  versions  of 
Holy  Writ.  They  had  been  launched  at  his  head  frequently 


SUTCLIFFE'S  RETURN  129 

during  some  fifteen  years  of  married  life,  and  had  become 
innocuous  from  iteration.  He  continued  to  smoke  stolidly. 
His  wife  came  across  the  kitchen  and  stood  before  him  sniffing. 

Now  there  is  something  very  exasperating  in  a  sniff,  judi- 
ciously administered,  and  with  proper  accentuation.  The  old 
man  opened  his  eyes,  took  his  pipe  from  his  lips  and  said,  "  Shut 
it,  Missis." 

"I  won't  shut  it,"  the  woman  returned,  quickly  mollified  at 
the  effect  of  her  battery;  "I  ain't  goin' to  shut  it.  W'y  here's 
Capting  Saundisson,  as  good  a  man  as  ever  stepped,  willin'  to 
marry  the  gell,  or,  says  he,  'Pay  me  that  fif-ety  pound  you  owe 
me.'  Though,  p'raps  'ee  won't  feel  that  way — egspecially 
now." 

Sutcliff e  woke  up  at  once,  eyeing  this  plotter  with  impatience. 
"What  do  you  mean?"  he  cried. 

"A-h-h-h-h!"  said  Mrs.  Sutcliff  e  dolorously. 

"Hold  your  noise!"  he  returned.  "I  won't  have  the  lass 
worried.  Lumme!  you  make  a  big  song  about  your  God- 
fearin'  an'  your  chapel-goin',  but  you're  worse  than  a  bloomin* 
Turk,  an'  so's  Saunderson  if  he  thinks  I'm  goin'  to  sell  the  lass." 

"Owe  no  man  anything,"  cried  Mrs.  Sutcliffe  austerely. 

"Blatherskites!" 

"No,  George,  not  blatherskites,  nor  any  other  heathenish 
worrud.  It's  ondecent,  it's  on-christian.  Tell  me  where  you 
find  it  writ?  It's  not  in  Gawd's  'Oly  Book.  It's  an  infidel 
worrud — a  worrud  as  you  have  picked  up  amongst  the  Turks 
an'  other  naked  seviges." 

The  old  man  watched  her  with  weary  eyes. 

"It's  almost  a  pity  we  can't  pick  up  some  other  of  their 
customs  whiles  we  are  about  it,"  he  said. 

"An'  wot  might  they  be?"  Mrs.  Sutcliffe  questioned  with  a 
sniff  of  intense  interest;  for  she,  like  many  other  estimable 


130  THE  ISSUE 

females,  evinced  keen  interest  in  scandalous  revelations.  They 
gave  her  the  opportunity  of  tasting  emotions  to  which,  other- 
wise, she  was  a  stranger,  and  enabled  her,  also,  to  air  her  own 
peculiar  morality  with  fitting  diatribes. 

"They  chuck  old  wimmen  an'  them  as  has  tongues,  into  the 
Bos'prus,"  said  Sutcliffe  with  a  far  away  gleam  of  merriment. 
"That's  what  they  do,  Missis." 

"Haigh!"  shrieked  Mrs.  Sutcliffe,  but  standing  severely 
still.  "Haigh!  how  long,  O  Lawd!  How  long!  Haigh!  an' 
to  think  it's  come  to  this  after  fifteen  years  of  scrudgin' ;  fifteen 
years  of  slavin'.  George  Sutcliffe,"  she  continued  slowly,  and 
shaking  a  prophetic  forefinger  at  her  silent  lord  and  master, 
"the  day  will  come  when  you'll  be  sorry  for  them  worruds — 
an'  will  say " 

"Oh  Lord!  give  us  a  rest,"  sighed  the  old  man  wistfully. 
"If  this  isn't  as  bad  as  a  gale  o'  wind  in  a  leaky  ship — as  the 
sayin'  is — I  don't  know." 

"There  is  no  peace,  saith  my  Gawd,  fer  the  wicked,"  said 
his  wife. 

Captain  Sutcliffe  rose  from  his  chair.  The  fire  had  gone 
out,  so  also  had  his  pipe.  The  paraffin  lamp  burnt  low,  with 
a  gurgling  noise  in  its  throat.  The  house  was  pervaded  with 
an  atmosphere  of  bickering  and  misery,  impossible  to  dis- 
associate from  the  figures  of  forlorn  weariness  and  nagging  the 
two  presented. 

"I'm  goin'  out,"  said  the  Captain,  moving  towards  the  door. 

"You'd  best  not." 

"What's  to  hinder  me?" 

"Susie." 

Mrs.  Sutcliffe's  voice  dropped.  Her  husband  stood  in  the 
doorway  watching  her  with  angry  eyes. 

"Susie?"  he  cried.     "What  do  you  mean?    T'hell  wiv  you 


SUTCLIFFE'S  RETURN  131 

an'  your  naggin' — you'll  drive  a  man  mad.  Wheer's  the 
lass?" 

"Gone." 

"Gone— wheer  to?" 

"To  her  lover,  likely  as  not." 

Sutcliffe  closed  the  door  and  stood  confronting  her  with  a 
new  sternness. 

"What  do  you  mean?  Speak  straight,  wumman!"  he 
rapped  out.  "Do  you  hear  me — wheer's  the  lass?" 

"I  turned  her  out.  I  could  do  nothin'  else.  All  the  vil- 
lage is  talkin'  of  her  an'  her  disgraceful  goin's  on.  I  won't 
'ave  it  in  my  house." 

Mrs.  Sutcliffe's  courage  returned  now  the  worst  was  said. 
The  sound  of  her  own  voice  acted  as  an  incentive;  she  tossed 
her  head  sniffing  aloud  in  self-justification. 

"You  turned — the  lass  out?  Out  .  .  .  of  .  .  , 
your  house.  All  the  village  ...  is  ...  talkin'  of 
her.  You — what  did  you  do,  wumman  ?  " 

"I  turned  her  out — that's  wot  I  did,  George.  I  speak  it 
plain,  don't  I?" 

"You  .  .  .  turned  out  .  .  .  t'lass?"  The  old  man 
spoke  now  in  a  slow,  dazed  fashion,  as  though  repetition  were 
necessary  to  enable  him  to  grasp  the  horrid  truth.  "You 
turned  out  .  .  .  my  lil  Susie?  Is  that  it,  Missis?" 

Mrs.  Sutcliffe  quailed  beneath  his  stern,  set  face,  and  shrank 
backward  into  the  room.  She  was  entirely  unused  to  the  sound 
of  anger.  For  years  she  had  ruled  this  house  with  the  terror 
of  her  tongue,  and  even  now  lashed  out  at  the  whisper  of 
restraint. 

"The  gell's  no  better  than  she  ought  to  be,"  she  retorted, 
hoping  by  a  show  of  spirit  to  regain  her  ascendancy.  But  her 
judgment  was  awry;  this  last  taunt  was  too  much  for  the  old 


i32  THE  ISSUE 

man.  He  caught  her  by  the  throat,  shaking  her  to  and  fro  in 
his  still  powerful  grip. 

"You  lie — you — you  wumman!  You  lie,"  he  shouted.  "T'lass 
is  pure  as  the  angels — pure  as  Gawd's  holy  angels.  It's  you — 
wumman — you  who  ain't  fit  to  hold  a  candle  to  her.  Wheer 
is  she  gone?  Tell  me  that  you — you  croakin',  squawkin' 
gospel-puncher.  Wheer  is  she  gone  ?  " 

In  an  access  of  rage  he  flung  her  from  him  and  sat  down  on 
the  bench  near  the  door,  trembling  like  a  child. 

Mrs.  Sutcliffe  cowered  on  the  floor.  "When  thine  enemy 
smiteth  thee,"  she  groaned,  "turn  thou " 

"Have  done,  wumman!  You  an*  your  Bible.  Have  done!" 
Sutcliffe  shouted  as  he  rose  and  stood  over  her.  "You've  been 
the  curse  of  my  life — the  curse  of  my  life — do  you  hear  ?  For 
years  you've  come  betwixt  me  an'  peace.  Susie  is  all  that's 
kept  me  here  .  .  .  an'  now  .  .  .  an'  now  she's  gone. 
My  Gawd!  she's  gone,  an'  I  go  too.  Wumman — wumman! 
do  you  know  what  this  means  to  me?" 

Mrs.  Sutcliffe  dragged  herself  towards  him,  scared  at  the 
novelty  of  his  stern,  hard  tones. 

"George,"  she  moaned;  "George,  I've  tried  to  do  my  duty 
by  the  gell.  I've  tried " 

Sutcliffe  broke  in  without  remorse. 

"It  means  a  little  worrud  o'  four  letters,  wumman.  A 
worrud  you're  over  fond  of  slingin'  about  you.  It  means  Hell — 
an'  nothin'  else.  Before  it  was  Hell  tempered  wiv  Heaven. 
Now  it's  the  whole  bottomless  pit,  wiv  never  a  gleam  of  light. 
Do  you  understand?  Am  I  plain,  wumman?  That  is  what 
it  means  to — to  George  Sutcliffe." 

He  stood  fingering  the  latch,  ready  to  go.  "She  wanted 
help,"  he  continued;  "you  give  her  worruds.  She  wanted 
guidance;  you  give  her  argiments.  She  wanted  love;  you 


SUTCLIFFE'S  RETURN  133 

give  her  tex's,  an'  thought  I  were  none  the  wiser.  Lord!  Lord  I 
it's  a  cold,  harrd  worrld.  A  crewl  worrld,  an'  I  must  see  about 
findin'  her.  My  lil'  Susie — my  lil'  Susie." 

He  lifted  the  latch.  "I  think  you  understan'  me,"  he  said, 
pausing  on  the  threshold.  "I  think  I've  put  it  straight,  as  the 
sayin'  is?" 

Mrs.  Sutcliffe  made  no  response.  She  lay  in  a  heap  on  the 
floor,  weeping  silently. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  SEARCH 

OUTCLIFFE  stepped  out  into  the  street  and  stood  look- 
^  ing  about  him. 

Where  should  he  go;  how  hide  the  misery  gnawing 
at  his  vitals;  how  carry  himself  erect  before  the  gaping  village? 
How?  Thank  God,  the  fog  had  fallen;  the  steaming  yellow 
mist  was  a  pillar  of  cloud  to  the  forlorn  old  man  plodding,  with 
stern  eyes,  towards  the  park.  Again,  where  should  he  go? 
Which  way  of  all  the  multitude  should  he  take  ?  In  which,  of 
all  the  teeming  townlets,  commence  his  search?  There  are 
70,000  people  hereabout;  70,000 — think  of  it,  and  Susie  some- 
where hid  among  them.  Pshaw!  where  should  he  begin?  In 
Abbeyville — her  own  village?  Chut!  foolishness;  she  would 
not  be  there,  or  the  wagging  gossips  would  have  brought  him 
news.  At  his  sister's  ?  Impossible — she  would  have  sent  him 
word.  At  Shornecombe — the  little  village  near  which  Jack 
Elliott  lived?  Absurd,  impossible;  for  that  would  but  give 
colour  to  his  wife's  suspicions.  At  Riverton,  Salcombe,  Tunley, 
any  of  a  score  of  places  up  or  down  the  line?  Maybe — but 
where  should  he  begin? 

A  cart  rumbled  heavily  down  the  village  street  behind  him. 
He  stood  aside  to  let  it  pass.  A  great  white  miller's  waggon 
emerged  from  the  fog,  and  four  steaming  dapple-grey  horses, 
in  the  full,  jingling  panoply  of  burnished  harness,  drew  past. 
A  Riverton  cart — no  other.  Chance  decided  it.  He  would 
go  to  Riverton.  Riverton  had  police  who  might  help  him. 


THE  SEARCH  135 

Help  him  to  what?  To  find  Susie?  Impossible.  He  could 
not  tell  them  she  was  gone.  As  soon  would  he  dream  of  climbing 
up  beside  yon  vanishing  miller,  and  lay  his  heart  bare — im- 
possible, all  impossible. 

So  he  trudged  on  through  the  fog,  his  brain  quick  with  hopes, 
fears,  thoughts,  phantasies;  quicker  than  he  ever  remembered 
in  all  the  gray  misery  of  those  years  which  had  rolled  so  slowly 
since  Lucy's  death.  Thus  he  came  to  the  top  of  the  alley,  and 
struck  out  down  the  highroad,  going  towards  Riverton. 

"On  a  job  like  this,  as  the  sayin*  is,"  he  repeated  aloud. 
"On  a  job  like  this,  I'll  walk — an'  walk — an'  walk.  Maybe 
if  I  walk  long  enough,  and  look,  I'll  find  the  lil'  lass.  Maybe  I'll 
find  her  so. " 

Morning  saw  him  still  afoot,  quietly  plodding  the  streets 
of  Riverton  and  visiting  from  house  to  house.  All  his  acquaint- 
ances met  him  in  turn  that  day.  Now  he  would  knock  at  a  door, 
and  entering  slowly,  would  glance  around  for  signs  of  the  lass, 
and  seeing  none,  would  sit  down  a  while  to  chat  in  his  kindly 
fashion  with  the  inmates. 

"A  cold  blow,  skipper,"  was  the  formula  did  he  chance  on 
one  of  his  own  sex  and  calling.  "The  fog  will  rise  wiv  the  sun 
belike — your  opinion,  skipper  ?  Ah,  so  I  thought — so  I  thought. 
Must  have  been  a  power  of  trouble  on  the  river,  as  the  savin'  is, 
a  night  like  this.  Indeed,  indeed,  you're  right.  I  am  well  in 
out  of  it.  Only  just  in  time  though.  The  Tantalus  is  like 
her  skipper — gettin*  old,  mate;  old  an'  slow.  She's  not  what 
she  was  in  'stays,'  not  by  chalks.  Can't  be  sure  which  way 
she'll  come — like  us  all,  mate ;  like  us  all. " 

At  some  houses  the  children  would  trot  out  to  greet  him. 
Then  he  was  at  his  best.  "What  ho!  sonny,"  he  would  say, 
"that's  the  time  of  day,  is  it?  An'  how  goes  the  schoolin' 
-—don't  love  it?  No — ah,  there's  a  brave  boy,  on  to  my 


136  THE  ISSUE 

knee  an'  look  about  you.  Now  in  that  pocket  of  yours 
— what's  in  it  ?  Marbles,  I'll  go  bail.  An'  a  top — an'  a  lump 
o'  chalk.  Lumme!  I  might  have  known  it.  We're  all  alike 
— fair  copies  of  each  other,  aren't  we,  Missis  ?  " 

"  Eigh !  for  the  day  when  we  were  young.  No  bigger  troubles 
than  the  lack  of  apples,  sugar  an'  the  like.  Happy  days, 
Missis.  Eigh!  but  you  should  have  seen  my  lil'  Susie  in  those 
days.  When  I  come  home  from  a  voyage,  there  she  is,  standin' 
on  top  of  the  sofy — lookin'  down  the  street  for  daddy.  My 
worrd  I  was  proud  those  times.  Oh!  I  was  proud.  Never 
home  wivout  some  fal-lal  for  the  lil'  lass,  something  bright  an' 
pretty  as  she'd  cotton  to,  and  tuck  away  wiv  her  little  fists.  An' 
then — on  to  my  foot,  ride  a  cock  horse — such  a  little  curly- 
headed  imp.  An'  the  prettiness  of  her;  Lord,  the  prettiness 
of  her!  The  pictur'  of  this  lil'  thing  of  yours,  the  dancin',  blue- 
eyed,  merry  monkey.  Eigh!  the  prettiness  of  her — maybe  you 
remember  her,  Missis  ?  " 

"Not  very  well?  Aye,  indeed,  we're  a  long  way  separate 
now,  an'  it's  expensive  travellin'.  You  haven't  set  eyes  on  her 
some  while  I'm  sure.  No?  Ah,  I  might  have  known  it — 
indeed  I  might  have  known  it. " 

After  this  the  conversation  always  flagged,  the  old  man's 
face  grew  grayer  and  the  children  ceased  to  interest  him.  Then 
he  would  seek  for  an  opportunity  to  escape,  and  having  found  it, 
trudge  slowly  to  the  next  stopping  place;  and  thus,  at  length, 
he  came  upon  some  news. 

Which  friend  had  told  him,  he  did  not  know;  whether  in  the 
street  or  house,  he  cared  nothing.  Someone  had  seen  the  lass 
in  Abbeyville.  In  her  own  village.  It  seemed  absurd;  still, 
the  words  had  been  spoken  and  to  Abbeyville  Sutcliffe  was 
going. 

The  trains  were  late;  all  traffic  was  uncertain  by  reason  of  the 


THE  SEARCH  137 

fog.  The  evening  was  well  advanced  ere  he  reached  his 
destination,  the  village  blacksmith's  home. 

Tony  Crow  was  the  village  blacksmith;  a  great  and  brawny 
six-footer,  with  the  chest  and  arms  of  a  Hercules,  the  limp  legs 
of  a  Mexican  cow-boy,  the  face  of  a  prize-fighter,  and  the  soul 
of  a  little  child  for  innocence. 

Tony  Crow's  wife  was  the  last  to  see  the  lil'  lass  in  Abbey- 
ville.  So  much  the  old  man  had  gleaned.  Now  he  crossed 
the  muddy  road  and  stood  beside  the  door  knocking  to  gain 
admittance.  This  place  was  not  Riverton,  and  here,  he  had 
scant  need  for  secrecy.  His  question  went  straight  home  as  he 
paused  on  the  threshold: 

"The  Missis  has  seen  my  lil'  Susie?" 

The  blacksmith  threw  wide  the  door  and  gripped  him  by 
the  hand.  "Socks!"  he  cried,  "so  ah'm  hearin'.  Missis!  it's 
Cap'n  George.  Eigh!  but  you  look  weary — set  dahn,  man — 
set  dahn. " 

"The  lil'  Lass,  Missis,"  Sutcliffe  reiterated  turning  directly 
to  the  wife  and  ignoring  the  preferred  hospitality. 

"  Law,  Capting,  don't  look  like  that.  Come  in  an' rest.  I'll 
tell  you  all  I  know. " 

"Aye,  that's  good  of  you,  Missis.  You  see  I'm  up  a  bit 
early — the  lass  didn't  expect  me  yet;  an'  there  bein'  this  bother, 
as  the  sayin'  is,  why  there  it  is. " 

"Law,  yes — a  course.  It's  easy  to  see  how  the  mistake 
come  about.  You  bein'  at  sea  so  much,  an'  Susie  without  any 
sort  o' " 

"But  you've  seen  her,  Missis ?"  Sutcliffe  questioned,  unheed- 
ing her  ponderous  explanation. 

"Tell  Cap'n  George  wheer  you  see  her,"  cried  Tony  Crow 
with  boisterous  effusion.  "Socks!  that's  what  he  wants  t'be 
at." 


i38  THE  ISSUE 

"I'm  comin'  to  it,  Tony,  surelie.  Didn't  I  tell  you  all  about 
it,  an*  Mrs.  Slowboy,  the  passon's  wife.  You  know  I  did. 
Capting,  I'm  comin'  through  the  pawk  in  the  evenin*  when  I 

99 

Sutcliffe  stopped  her  with  a  gesture. 

"Which  evening,  Missis?  Do  you  happen  to  know  which 
evening?" 

"Was  it  three  days  agone,  Tony — or  four  or  five  days  agone  ?  " 

"Eigh!  the  wumman!" 

"It  must  have  been  a  week,  Capting.  Lawst  Friday  week 
as  was;  for  I  mind  I'm  comin'  back  through  the  pawk  from 
seein'  Mrs.  Timses'  baby,  as  is  that  weak  an'  pulin'  as  never 
was,  though  the  cause  ain't  hid  under  a  ton  o'  bricks,  as  maybe 
you  know,  Capting.  An'  I  see  someone  sittin'  on  the  sea-wall. 
A  gell  it  was.  Your  gell,  Capting.  I  know  becose  I  crossed 
the  grass  an'  spoke  to  her.  'Waitin'  fer  someone  ?'  I  says.  'No,' 
she  says.  'It's  gettin*  damp,  Susie,'  I  says.  'I  know  it,'  she 
says;  'I'm  comin'  home  direckly.' 

"I  left  her  then,  Capting — an'  when  I  look  back  through  the 
pawk  gates,  she's  still  there,  sittin'  up  agenst  the  skyline  on  the 
sea-wall — an'  that's  the  lawst  as  anyone  see  of  her. " 

The  skipper's  face  had  fallen.  A  gray  pallor  crept  over 
the  tan  as  he  listened.  He  stayed  to  put  one  more  question. 

"You  didn't  say  anythin'  else,  maybe?" 

"Nary  a  word,  Capting.    I  had  no  call  to." 

"Thank  you,  Missis. " 

George  Sutcliffe  moved  stiffly  towards  the  door. 

"I  think  I'll  be  movin'  on,"  he  said.  "I'm  obliged  for  what 
you've  told  me.  You  see  I'll  be  havin'  a  letter  from  her  to- 
morrow. She  don't  expect  me  before  then.  It's  useless 
worryin',  on  a  job  like  that,  as  the  sayin'  is. " 

"Stay  an'  have  a  sup  o'  grub,  Cap'n,"  said  Tony,  who  was 


THE  SEARCH  139 

quite  aware  of  the  whole  circumstances.  "  Stay  an'  have  a  sup, 
an'  a  poipe,  there's  a  man. " 

But  Sutcliffe  was  already  on  the  steps  preparing  to  resume 
his  search.  He  turned  at  the  sound  of  the  blacksmith's  invita- 
tion. 

"Nay,  I  must  be  movin'  on.  I've  arranged  for  a  place  in 
Riverton,  wheer  I'm  shiftin'.  Susie  is  goin'  to  live  wiv  me 
there.  You  see,  the  lil'  lass  is  better  eddicated  than  me 
.  .  .  an'  the  wife.  She  didn't — they  didn't  ezactly  hit  it  off. 
I  think  I've  put  it  straight,  Tony,  as  the  sayin'  is.  I  think 
you  understand  me — a  job  like  that  ?  " 

He  closed  the  door  he  had  held  behind  him,  and  moving 
slowly,  came  into  the  road. 

"The  lil'  lass!"  he  moaned.  "The  lil'  lass— wheer  shall  I 
find  her?" 

Once  more  he  was  alone  with  his  misery.  Once  more  the 
gray  fog-blanket  wrapped  his  movements  in  seclusion.  Once 
more  the  street  echoed  to  his  tread  as  he  headed  wearily  down 
the  village.  He  passed  the  smithy,  the  beer  house  at  the  corner, 
and  came  to  the  pier  where  he  had  landed  twenty-four  hours 
earlier. 

"Eigh!  the  crewl,  hard  worrld — the  crewl,  cold  worrld!" 
The  words  fell  without  volition  as  he  searched  for  a  place 
where  he  might  sit  down  to  think. 

The  door  of  the  piermaster's  sail  loft  stood  ajar.  A  good 
room  wherein  to  shelter  from  the  damp,  dull  fog.  The  pier- 
master's  retriever  lay  chained  and  growling  furtively  at  the 
entrance. 

"Jacob!  Jacob — good  dog.  Lie  down,  old  son.  It's  me — 
it's  me."  He  passed  in  quietly,  the  dog  wagging  an  effusive 
welcome.  He  sat  down  to  think. 

"That  string's  broke,"  he  whispered,  leaning  forward  with 


i4o  THE  ISSUE 

his  hands  about  the  dog's  neck.  "Eh,  Jacob,  old  boy,  the  old 
man's  weary — weary  of  life.  The  UP  lass — my  lil'  Susie,  as 
used  to  tuck  her  little  fists  about  your  neck,  Jacob — she's 
gone,  an'  Gawd  alone  knows  where  to  find  her. " 

Sutcliffe's  head  sank  low  on  his  arms,  the  dog  moaned  in 
sympathy;  then  the  piermaster  came  to  close  the  door,  and 
silence  reigned  unbroken. 


CHAPTER  IV 
SAUNDERSON  PLAYS  A  TRUMP 

AGAIN  a  solitary  figure  plodding  the  quiet  roads  and 
tortuous  lanes.  Another  day.  Muggy  skies,  steam- 
ing hedgerows,  dripping  trees,  mud,  slush — image,  the 
country  Swinfleet  way. 

A  silent  figure,  somewhat  bent,  clad  in  dark  blue  cloth  and 
peaked  blue  cap;  with  straggly,  curled  ringlets  hanging  about 
his  ears;  gray,  thin,  identical  on  either  side,  a  cleanshaven  face. 
A  man  with  shining,  scarred  visage,  the  colour  of  new  ma- 
hogany; a  firm,  set  mouth  and  sad,  gray-blue  eyes — image,  an 
old-school  Thames  skipper.  George  Sutcliffe. 

Sutcliffe  on  the  third  day  of  his  wanderings  now  approaching 
Swinfleet  with  Susie's  belated  letter  in  his  pocket.  He  might 
have  taken  train;  but  to  do  so  he  must  have  waited  an  hour 
or  more.  He  had  grown  accustomed  to  walking  and  preferred  it. 
He  was  alone  thus.  The  other  way  meant  clacking  tongues; 
questions,  answers,  misery. 

Everyone  knew  this  business;  only  he  denied  it.  Susie  was 
missing ;  his  wife  had  turned  her  out ;  now  he  sought  her.  The 
people,  the  poor  people,  looked  and  said,  "Aye,  it's  easy  seen 
there's  been  a  mistake — the  lass  is  safe  no  doubt."  Their 
sympathy  hurt  him.  The  girl  was  missing;  he  knew  they 
knew  it,  but  persisted  in  his  silent  course  working  out  the  prob- 
lem in  his  own  dull  fashion. 

Now  all  that  was  past.  Susie  was  with  her  aunt  at  Swinfleet 
and  he  was  going  to  meet  her.  Mud,  slush,  puddled  cart  ruts; 

141 


i42  THE  ISSUE 

unholy  stones  waiting  to  be  ground  into  mother  earth;  a  shower 
of  drops  from  the  trees — "Eh,  a  breeze  comin'  up.  Lawd 
send  a  clearance  of  the  weather." 

He  plodded  on,  his  eyes  bent  on  the  ground;  his  garments 
splashed  and  foul;  his  coat  wet,  the  gray  ringlets  dripping 
moisture.  Hark!  A  cart  approached,  tearing  through  the 
mud  with  the  squirm  and  splutter  of  a  torpedo  boat  on  the 
measured  mile.  He  glanced  around.  A  cart  from  Abbey- 
ville — Saunderson  the  driver. 

"What  ho!  skipper.  Lumme!  but  this  is  wonderful  luck." 
The  horse  was  almost  on  its  haunches  with  the  energy  of 
Saunderson's  check.  Sutcliffe  lifted  his  bent  back  and  looked 
at  the  big  man  making  room  for  him  to  mount. 

"Aye,"  he  said,  "maybe  it's  luck — maybe  it's  not,  a  job  like 
that.  No,  I'll  not  get  up— I'd  rather  walk." 

Saunderson  did  not  urge  the  point.  He  dismounted  instead, 
and,  throwing  the  reins  over  his  arm,  moved  on  beside  the  cart. 

"I  heard  you  were  out  here,"  he  said,  "wiv  Susie — an'  so 
I  made  the  best  of  my  way  to  see  you.  How's  the  lass  ?  " 

Sutcliffe  paused.  His  companion  immediately  brought 
the  horse  to  a  standstill,  and  the  two  men  faced  each  other. 

"That's  not  what  you  want  with  me,"  Sutcliffe  remarked. 
"  Speak  out — man  to  man.  What  is  it  you  do  want  ?  " 

"You  know  what  it  is  I'm  after — you  know  as  well  as  I  do 
that  it's  Susie  I  want.  I've  asked  you  to  help  me  gain  her — 
I've  done  many  things  for  you,  an'  I  look  for  some  sort  of  kind- 
ness in  return.  Man,"  he  continued,  his  deep  voice  rolling 
in  the  quiet  lane,  "can't  you  see  I  love  her?  Can't  you  see  I 
would  give  my  soul  case  to  have  her — do  you  want  me  to  put 
it  all  in  writin' — am  I  to  be  forever  on  the  beg " 

Sutcliffe  drew  himself  stiffly  upright.  He  lifted  his  hand  for 
silence.  "I  look  for  nothing,"  he  said,  "only  that  Susie  shall 


SAUNDERSON  PLAYS  A  TRUMP  143 

wed  who  she  loves.  If  she  loves  you,  then  I  give  her  to  you; 
without  that  I  will  never  give  you  my  help." 

"It's  a  dangerous  game  you're  playin',"  Saunderson  argued, 
his  anger  rising.  "I  could  double  you  up  easy  as  crackin* 
eggs.  I  could  turn  you  into  the  gutter.  If  I  wished  I  could 
put  a  light  to  the  old  house  down  by  the  river  an'  burn  every 
stick.  You  couldn't  touch  me.  It's  mine — mine.  Bought 
an'  paid  for  in  hard-earned  gold,  wiv  the  savin's  of  years,  you 
understand  ?  " 

But  Sutcliffe  did  not  quail.  His  thin  lips  became  a  trifle 
more  compressed,  his  eyes  took  a  colder  gleam.  "Aye,"  he 
said,  "you  could  do  that." 

"But  I  don't  want  to  do  it.  Lumme!  d'you  think  I'm 
yearnin'  to  botch  my  hand  ?  I  love  Susie — an'  I  look  for  your 
help." 

"Her  mother  tried  to  help  you — didn't  seem  to  come  off 
though,"  Sutcliffe  sneered. 

"Her  mother's  a  fool,"  Saunderson  retorted.  "She's  got 
no  tact.  Look  here,  George,  I  don't  wish  to  quarrel  wiv  you — 
it  isn't  sense.  Stand  aside  an'  don't  interfere.  Give  me  the 
chance  I  want,  an'  you'll  find  me  gentle  as  a  kid.  Is  it  a 
bargain  ?  " 

"Nay,  I  can  make  no  bargains,  on  a  job  like  that.  It's  my 
lil'  Susie  that  has  to  be  consulted,  not  me.  But  I  don't  mind 
telling  you,  that  if  you  win  her  I  shall  be  surprised.  Susie 
isn't  a  changeable  sort;  you  know  she's  pledged  to  Elliott — 
you  know  it  as  well  as  I  do." 

Saunderson  stood  a  moment  in  thought;  his  eyes  fixed  on 
the  old  man's  face. 

"  Aye,"  he  said, "  so  I've  heard.  Well — I  must  be  gettin'  back." 

' '  You  take  it  as  I  mean  ?  "  Sutcliffe  questioned.  ' '  You  under- 
stand I  wouldn't  force  her?" 


144  THE  ISSUE 

"Yes,  I  understand." 

"Then  there's  nothing  more  to  be  said?" 

"No;  it  don't  seem  like  it."  Saunderson  fumbled  in  his 
pocket,  staring  at  the  steaming  horse  as  though  he  expected 
that  weary  animal  could  help  him  with  his  subject.  Then 
again  his  glance  rested  on  Sutcliffe. 

"You've  come  from  Riverton — I  s'pose  you've  heard  the 
news?"  he  blurted. 

"About  Dunscombe?" 

"No— Elliott." 

Sutcliffe's  eyes  fell.  He  looked  about  him  in  wistful  suppli- 
cation. 

"I  know  nothing,"  he  said,  "'cept  that  the  lass  was  driven 
from  her  home.  What  about  him  ?" 

"They  are  searchin'  for  him  down  yonder  in  the  town.  They 
say  he  had  a  hand — in  Dunscombe's  murder." 

"They  say  what?" 

The  question  rang  in  a  new  tone  as  Sutcliffe  stepped  nearer. 
Saunderson  repeated  the  gossip,  adding: 

"I  know  nothin'.  I  tell  you  what  is  said  down  Riverton 
way — aye,  an'  in  Abbeyville,  too,  for  that  matter.  But  I  tell 
you  more.  They  won't  find  him.  They  will  never  find  him, 
not  if  they  look  till  Kingdom  come." 

"What  do  you  mean  ?    Speak  straight  man — speak  straight." 

"It's  a  thing  I  always  do,  George  Sutcliffe.  But  sometimes 
it's  wise  to — hedge  a  bit,  as  you  might  say — 'specially  when 
you're  speakin'  to  the  father  of  the  gell  he  was  goin'  to  marry. 
It  might  ease  the  shock,  you  see." 

Sutcliffe  made  a  gesture  of  impatience.  "Go  on,"  he  cried, 
"go  on." 

"I  was  down  at  the  pier  this  mornin',"  Saunderson  resumed. 
"They  had  a  boat  there — cut  in  half.  It  was  the  boat  Jack 


SAUNDERSON  PLAYS  A  TRUMP  145 

Elliott  borrowed  when  he  ran  from  the  hounds.  There  was  a 
coat  tucked  under  the  thwart — Jack  Elliott's  coat;  an*  in  it 
was  a  letter.  I  have  it  here.  Maybe  you'll  know  the  writin'." 

He  held  a  crumpled,  water-stained  note  towards  his  com- 
panion. "Steady!"  he  said.  "I've  broke  it  to  you.  There's 
no  comfort  to  be  got  out  of  it.  Jack  Elliott's  down  the 
cellar." 

Sutcliffe  gripped  at  the  shaft  and  remained  speechless. 
Saunderson  watched  him  in  despair  until  he  opened  the  en- 
velope; then  again  he  searched  his  face,  but  the  old  man  only 
swayed  to  and  fro  like  one  on  the  verge  of  suffocation.  The 
letter  was  Susie's.  It  was  addressed  to  Elliott — now  Elliott 
was  dead.  Sutcliffe  glanced  up,  a  pathetic  figure,  shrunken, 
weary  of  battle,  full  of  the  anguish  of  years.  He  opened  his 
lips  to  speak — yet  the  words  said  nothing  of  his  torture:  "The 
lil'  lass,"  he  whispered.  "  Gawd  help  the  lil'  lass." 

"I  brought  it  to  you,"  Saunderson  explained,  "because  it 
seemed  best  for  you  to  break  it.  George,  you  are  the  only  one 
that  can  break  it.  If  I  could  help,  I'd  do  it  willin' — but  I  can't, 
I  can't." 

Sutcliffe  made  no  response  for  some  minutes,  then  he  ex- 
tended his  hand:  "I  believe  you,"  he  said.  "Eigh!  the  lil' 
lass." 

Saunderson  made  no  effort  to  continue  the  conversation; 
he  grasped  the  proffered  hand,  remounted  his  cart,  gathered  up 
the  reins  and  drove  off  towards  Riverton.  The  old  man 
passed  on  at  once,  murmuring  as  he  went:  "Eigh!  the  lil' 
lass!  Terr'ble,  terr'ble — the  crewl,  hard  worrld." 

In  half  an  hour  he  had  arrived  at  the  small  latticed  gate 
Elliott  had  so  recently  left.  His  sister,  hearing  footsteps,  came 
to  the  porch  and  looked  out.  She  advanced  down  the  path 
to  meet  him. 


I46  THE  ISSUE 

"George!"  she  cried.  "Oh,  I'm  glad  to  see  you,  brother. 
Indeed,  I'm  glad  to  see  you." 

Sutcliffe  stumbled  miserably  on  the  steps.  His  hand  strayed 
aimlessly  to  meet  hers:  "How  is  she?"  he  whispered. 

"Shockin',  shockin'.  Never  a  smile  since  that  night;  scarce 
a  word — an'  when  me  an'  Tom  come  in,  she's  lyin'  on  the  floor 
like  the  dead." 

"Wheer  is  she,  sister?" 

"Upstairs — sittin'  in  the  winda,  starin'  at  the  trees." 

"Take  me  up.    I  want  to  see  her. " 

"Nay,  I'll  call  her  down.  Maybe  it'll  rouse1  her.  Make 
her  cry,  George — there's  nothin'  like  a  cry  for  cheerin'  one  up. 
It  will  do  her  more  good  than  all  the  med'cins  in  the  phar- 
macy. " 

She  bustled  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs;  ascended  noisily  and 
opened  the  girl's  door.  Sutcliffe  took  off  his  cap  and  stood 
looking  into  the  crown. 

"Carey's  wheer  I  bought  it,"  he  remarked  inconsequently; 
"eighteen  pence  is  what  it  cost."  He  hung  it  carefully  against 
the  wall  where  no  peg  was.  The  cap  slipped  to  the  floor. 
"Lumme!"  he  whispered,  glancing  around,  "I'm  goin'  blind 
on  a  job  like  that. " 

The  jubilant  voice  of  his  sister  sounded  on  the  staircase  as 
he  entered  the  kitchen.  A  moment  later  Mrs.  Surridge  fol- 
lowed with  her  arm  about  the  girl's  waist. 

"There  you  are,"  she  cried:  "Father's  come  to  see  you. 
Go  an'  talk,  my  pretty — there's  nothin'  like  talk  for  cheerin' 
one  up — 'cept  maybe  a  cry. "  The  latter  was  an  afterthought 
as  she  closed  the  door  upon  them. 

The  girl  entered  with  a  stoney  gaze  that  cut  Sutcliffe  to  the 
heart.  He  moved  forward  to  meet  her. 

"My  HI'  Susie, "  he  whispered.    "My  HI'  Susie. " 


SAUNDERSON  PLAYS  A  TRUMP  147 

Then,  almost  before  the  words  had  died,  she  lay  in  his  arms, 
her  face  pillowed  on  his  breast,  sobbing  pitifully. 

Late  that  night  when  all  the  household  was  in  bed,  Sutcliffe 
paced  the  room  as  he  would  have  paced  the  deck  of  his  vessel 
on  a  stormy  night ;  but  with  a  different  species  of  trouble  chasing 
sleep  from  his  eyes.  He  had  heard  of  Dunscombe's  death,  but 
had  not  stayed  to  investigate  the  matter  as  others  had.  The 
news  Saunderson  had  given  him,  coupled  with  Susie's  pale 
face  and  altered  manner,  struck  him  a  double  blow. 

The  old  man  quailed  before  the  miserable  sequence  of  events. 
His  thoughts  wandered  from  one  anguish  to  another — Susie's 
flight,  the  difficulty  with  his  wife  and  Saunderson,  Dunscombe's 
murder,  and  the  rumours  of  Elliott's  guilt,  his  flight  and  death. 
Sutcliffe  was  growing  impervious  to  further  torture;  he  could 
only  moan  dumbly  like  an  overwhipped  slave  at  the  triangles. 
And  so,  as  the  dawn  peeped  in,  it  found  him  standing  near 
the  diamond-paned  lattice,  holding  something  aloft  and  strok- 
ing it  tenderly. 

"To  think  it's  come  to  this,"  he  murmured.  "Eigh!  such 
a  bright  lil'  lass — always  ready  to  meet  her  father  an'  tuck 
away  the  fal-lals  he  brought  her.  Such  a  lil'  sunbeam.  Eigh! 
the  crewl,  hard  worrld.  Strick  down  just  when  the  old  man 
wanted  her  most.  Gawd's  hand,  sir?  Aye — so  I've  heard, 
so  I've  heard;  but,  beggin'  to  differ,  I'm  not  wiv  you — on  a  job 
like  that. " 

It  was  a  long  lock  of  the  girl's  bright  hair,  a  piece  cut  years 
ago  that  he  was  fondling  in  the  growing  light. 


CHAPTER  V 
SUTCLIFFE  SEEKS  A  REPLY 

A  MAN'S  action  is  never  complete  in  itself.  It  does  not 
die  even  if  he  dies  of  its  effect.  A  man  may  cut  his 
throat — well,  there  remain  results,  ramifications  passing  all 
comprehension,  to  others. 

To  put  it  plainly,  some  one  must  attend  the  inquest  and  see 
to  the  funeral;  some  one  must  wind  up  the  estate,  if  by 
chance  there  be  an  estate,  and  if  there  be  none,  some  one  may 
be  compelled  to  adopt  the  children — and  as  a  side  issue,  it  may 
not  be  convenient  for  some  one.  We  can  scarcely  place  any 
limit  to  the  possibilities  in  such  a  case,  but  we  may  be  very 
sure  that  we  who  are  left  must  attend  the  reckoning.  So  in  this 
matter  of  Susie  and  Jack. 

Elliott  had  acted  from  a  very  complete  recognition  of  the 
situation  as  it  faced  him  in  a  moment  of  scare.  He  had  taken 
a  definite  line  of  action  after  consideration  of  those  other  actions 
which  had  so  complicated  matters,  and  he  had  started  across 
the  water  to  solemnise  as  speedily  as  possible  a  marriage  already 
consummated.  He  had  acted  from  the  highest  motives — but 
for  some  reason  it  was  Susie  who  would  presently  have  to  pay. 

"Heaven  never  helps  the  man  who  will  not  act,"  Sophocles 
tells  us,  and  to  that  dictum  one  may  be  permitted  to  add,  and 
it  seldom  helps  those  who  do. 

We  always  pay.  In  blood,  in  tears,  in  some  sort  we  are 
compelled  to  pay,  and  we  can  either  stand  aside  and  take  it 
smiling,  or  we  can  put  on  the  gloves  and  bend  for  fighting.  At 

148 


SUTCLIFFE  SEEKS  A  REPLY  14$ 

present  Susie  knew  nothing  of  either  necessity — but  it  was  at 
hand. 

It  banged  on  the  door  one  afternoon  while  the  family  were 
discussing  the  ramifications.  Mrs.  Surridge  had  views  on  the 
subject,  but  she  also  had  convictions  as  to  the  personality 
behind  a  commonplace  rat-a-plan.  She  immediately  sprang 
from  her  chair:  "That's  a  quality  knock,"  she  announced' 
"sakes  alive!  how's  my  collar?" 

Sutcliffe  examined  the  articles  in  question  with  a  critical  eye 
and  shook  his  head:  "It's   not  so  clean  as  it  were,"  he  said 
"but  it'll  pass." 

But  by  this  time  Mrs.  Surridge  had  returned  from  a  peeping 
expedition  to  the  small  window  in  the  passage  and  stood  on 
tiptoe  before  the  glass  of  an  American  clock  ticking  gamely 
on  the  mantelshelf. 

"You're  worse  than  Tom,  George,  an'  that's  the  truth. 
You  open  the  door  while  I  get  straight.  It's  the  parson  come 
over  to  interfere.  I  don't  hold  with  interferin'  in  family  matters. 
Take  him  into  the  parlour  an'  talk  till  I'm  ready. " 

Sutcliffe  obeyed,  but  Surridge  made  use  of  the  opportunity 
to  escape,  and  it  devolved  on  the  skipper  to  do  the  honours. 
Mr.  Oakley  being  admitted  presently  found  himself  installed 
in  a  most  treacherous  chair  and  Sutcliffe,  seated  on  the  extreme 
edge  of  another,  confronting  him.  The  vicar  regarded  this 
phenomenon,  gravely,  over  raised  finger  tips  spread  like  an 
inverted  V  beneath  his  chin.  He  seemed  to  be  taking  the  man 
in  as  from  one  situated  at  an  immense  distance.  It  was  a 
position  crying  to  the  cartoonist  for  pencil  and  sketch  block. 
But  Mr.  Oakley  had  no  humour.  He  was  a  serious  man,  thin 
and  ascetic,  with  black  hair,  large  nose,  and  no  chin — one  of 
those  persons  with  whom  nature  has  dealt  unfairly  and  who 
deals  in  commonplace  as  a  result. 


150  THE  ISSUE 

Mrs.  Surridge  had  no  opinion  of  his  perspicacity.  She  ques- 
tioned how  any  one  could  know  anything  of  struggles  and 
poverty  "when  he  lives  in  a  blessed  man-sion  an'  has  five 
maids  to  attend  his  wants  beside  a  fat  buttons  an'  a  long-jawed 
coachman."  His  wife,  too,  troubled  Mrs.  Surridge  more 
than  she  would  readily  express.  It  seemed  that  "she  got  on  her 
nervous  system,"  though  how  she  effected  that  feat  was  not 
apparent. 

On  this  occasion  Mrs.  Surridge  entered  the  room  like  a 
gust  of  wind,  and  the  door  snapped  behind  her.  The  collar 
and  apron  she  wore  bristled  with  a  perfect  battery  of  turrets 
and  angles.  She  appeared  as  though  about  to  make  an  onslaught 
on  the  thin,  black-coated  form  seated  there  in  fear  of  a  break- 
down, but  she  only  extended  her  hand  and  said: 

"La!  to  think  it  was  you,  Mr.  Oakley, "  and  after  a  moment's 
pause:  "I  hope  you  will  excuse  me  for  keepin'  you  waitin' — 
but  being  single-handed  one  is  apt  to  get  caught,  as  you  yourself 
may  know. " 

The  vicar  smiled. 

"Indeed  I  do,"  he  said,  "such  things  often  happen,  but  wre 
become  used  to  them — as,  with  God's  help,  we  become  used  to 
even  greater  troubles." 

Mrs.  Surridge  sat  down  and  folded  her  hands  across  the  bat- 
tery. Her  society  manner  was  a  quaint  mixture  of  reticence 
and  boldness.  When  speaking  to  her  social  superior  her  tongue 
had  a  knack  of  finding  h's  where  none  exist — although  at  other 
times  she  rarely  made  a  blunder  with  the  aspirate.  But  now  she 
was  obviously  at  a  disadvantage.  There  was  a  queer  tighten- 
ing at  the  corner  of  her  mouth  and  a  sparkle  in  her  eyes  which 
told  of  an  attempt  at  restraint  to  which  Mrs.  Surridge  was 
almost  a  stranger. 

"Hindeed,  sir,"  she  replied,  "has  we  get  older  we  do." 


SUTCLIFFE  SEEKS  A  REPLY  151 

"That  is  not  a  kind  remark,"  said  the  vicar  from  his  im- 
measurable distance,  "still,  we  will  not  retaliate — for,  as  far  as 
I  am  concerned,  it  is  more  or  less  true. " 

Mrs.  Surridge  smoothed  her  lap  and  tried  to  make  amends 
by  becoming  conversational.  "  The  weather's  perfeckly  awful," 
she  announced,  "an'  Tom's  got  a  litter  of  young  pigs  hout  in 
the  yard.  They  come  Monday  week,  most  tryin',  at  twelve 
o'clock  hat  night.  It's  not  often  hi  see  Tom  put  out,  but  them 
pigs  fair  made  him  ache. " 

The  vicar  regarded  the  incident  as  trivial.  He  knew  nothing 
of  pigs  and  was  concerned  with  a  much  deeper  problem,  to  wit, 
the  rumours  current  in  Abbeyville.  He  looked  up  with  a  sigh 
and  said:  "Yes,  the  winter  seems  to  be  setting  in  early.  These 
are  the  equinoctials,  I  suppose — eh,  Sutcliffe  ?  " 

The  old  man  recognised  that  the  question  was  addressed  to 
him.  "Maybe  that's  what  it  is,  sir,"  he  said,  "but  they  be 
main  damp  and  muggy." 

"Old  Moore's  what  hi  call  a  prophet,"  Mrs.  Surridge  inter- 
jected at  this;  "'some  gales  an'  much  rain,'  is  what  he  puts 
down  for  the  month — an'  we've  had  'em.  But  there's  worse 
to  come:  'A  crown-ed  head  will  be  taken  next  month  an'  the 
level-ooshionary  movement  his  to  be  follad  by  dire  heffects  for 
the  capat'lists,'  come  October." 

"Nonsense,  nonsense,  Mrs.  Surridge!"  the  vicar  objected, 
but  without  a  smile.  "No  one  has  power  to  foretell  these  or 
any  events.  It  is  the  veriest  mockery  and  should  be  sup- 
pressed." 

But  the  battery  remained  undisturbed. 

"Last  month,"  it  asserted  breathlessly,  "he  had  'trouble 
in  the  hager-i-cultoral  districts  an'  scarcity  o'  fodder.'  Con- 
sequency  is,  Farmer  Thompson's  killed  'is  beasts  for  want  of 
pasture,  an'  Tom's  struggles  to  keep  the  guv'nor's  sheep,  an» 


152  THE  ISSUE 

the  trouble  with  our  hown  fowls  an'  pigs  was  bringin'  him  to  a 
shadda.  If  that  ain't  proof  hi  don't  know  what  is." 

Mrs.  Surridge  paused  and  smoothed  the  battery  with  both 
hands,  but  the  vicar  perceived  his  opportunity  and  stepped 
along  at  his  ease. 

"I  came,"  he  said,  "to  speak  on  a  different  question — a  very 
delicate  question,  if  I  may  so  express  it." 

"Hi  knew  it,"  said  Mrs.  Surridge,  and  sat  back  defiant  in 
her  chair. 

"There  are  some  ugly  rumours  in  Abbeyville,"  he  proceeded, 
and  paused. 

"There  al-ways  is  rumours  hin  a  village,"  said  Mrs.  Surridge. 

"  But  these  seem  possible.    I  am  sorry  to  say  it — but  so  it  is." 

"They  al-ways  is  probable — else  what's  the  good  of  passin' 
'em  along?" 

"They  say,"  the  vicar  proceeded,  "that  Susie  has " 

"Hi  don't  think  we  need  henter  into  that,  eh,  brother?" 
Mrs.  Surridge  snapped,  glancing  at  Sutcliffe  for  confirmation. 

"  No  need  at  all.  Susie  were  driven  from  home  by  my  wife — 
an'  Susie's  here,"  he  replied  tersely. 

"  But,  if  you  prevent  me  taking  the  only  steps  I  can  to  clear 
the  girl's  character — don't  you  see  that  you  injure  her  and  give 
impetus  to  the  rumour  itself.  In  justice  to  Susie  you  should 


"The  whole  thing's  a  lie,"  Sutcliffe  broke  out  with  sudden 
passion,  "a  lie  put  about  by  my  wife  for  her  own  ends.  I 
don't  know  what  those  ends  are.  I  don't  ask.  I  only  know 
it's  a  lie  an'  I  won't  have  Susie  worried  to  answer." 

To  Sutcliffe  the  suggestion  of  refutation  was  equivalent,  per- 
haps, to  admission.  He  had  additionally  the  poor  man's  sense 
of  distrust  in  justice,  and  took  the  opportunity  of  expressing  it. 

"I  suppose,"  said  the  vicar,  from  that  immense  distance  which 


SUTCLIFFE  SEEKS  A  REPLY  153 

yawned  between  them,  "I  suppose  you  understand  that  if 
this  is  not  refuted — sorry  as  I  shall  be  personally — Susie  must 
give  up  her  position  at  the  schools?" 

"That  I  understand." 

"And  you  won't  prevent  it — you  won't  aid  me  to  clear  her 


"There  is  nothing  to  clear,"  said  Sutcliffe.  But  the  tone 
said  more  than  the  words. 

Mr.  Oakley  seemed  to  recognise  this,  for  he  turned  to  Mrs. 
Surridge  with  a  deprecatory  inflection: 

"Believe  me,"  he  said.  "I  have  no  wish  to  press  this  matter 
unduly.  It  was  for  Susie's  sake  I  spoke.  I  have  known  her 
so  long — and  now  everything  must  end.  Her  school  life,  her 
study,  her  salary — it  is  the  greatest  pity — the  greatest  pity." 
He  rose  and  stood  leaning  against  the  mantelpiece,  a  gaunt 
figure  in  black  with  narrow  eyes  and  a  preposterous  nose.  He 
looked  down  upon  Mrs.  Surridge  sitting  so  ill  at  ease  at  his 
feet  and  marked  her  labouring  breath  and  air  of  determination. 
"I  hoped,"  he  said,  "to  get  you  to  help  me,  Mrs.  Surridge,  but 
it  seems  impossible." 

"Quite  impossible,"  came  from  the  pursed  lips.    "Quite." 

"And  in  the  other  matter?" 

"I  don't  know  what  hit  is." 

"I  wish  to  persuade  your  brother  to  go  back  to  his  wife — 
will  you  aid  me  in  this  ?  " 

"I'd  as  lief  not,  Mr.  Oakley.  Capting  Sutcliffe  his  the  best 
judge  of  his  own  affairs." 

Mrs.  Surridge  was  on  surer  ground  here.  The  battery  be- 
came more  regular  in  its  movements,  the  lips  took  a  less  rigor- 
ous line.  "In  a  gen'ral  way,"  she  went  on  in  explanation  of 
her  position,  "I  don't  holt  with  a  man  leavin'  his  wife  or  con- 
trairiwise — not  so  long  as  they  are  what  you  might  call  hevenly 


iS4  THE  ISSUE 

matched.  But  when  one  or  the  other  has  the  temper  of  a 
washerwoman  hon  a  wet  day — it's  better  to  part  an'  have  done 
with  it." 

"Whom  God  hath  joined  together,  let  no  man  put  asunder," 
said  the  vicar  solemnly.  But  he  sighed  at  the  dictum. 

Mrs.  Surridge  flicked  the  notion  to  the  winds,  for  she  knew 
her  brother's  wife  both  before  and  after  marriage. 

"In  a  gen'ral  way,  that's  true,  sir,"  she  admitted,  "but  what 
had  the  Lord  to  do  with  Mary  Wyatt  marryin'  Capting 
Sutcliffe?" 

"Mrs.  Surridge,  I  think  you  go  farther  than  you  intend.  I 
think  you " 

"  Not  hi,"  said  the  lady,  and  proceeded  to  hammer  the  why. 
"Didn't  she  just  hogle  her  way  into  my  brother's  defections? 
Who  set  her  on  to  that,  sir?  Pride  and  laziness — nothin' 
else." 

"Not  quite  as  bad  as  that,  sister,"  Sutcliffe  remarked  in  his 
slow  fashion,  the  heat  all  vanished  with  the  new  topic.  "I 
ask  her,  you  mind." 

"A  course  you  did.  What  else  could  you  expect?  Why, 
if  a  woman  sets  her  heart  on  a  man's  home  he's  done — he've 
got  to  ask  her." 

"Still,"  the  vicar  persisted,  "that  is  no  reason  why  your 
brother  should  throw  her  off.  It  may  be  an  easy  method  of 
ridding  one's  self  of  an  unpleasant  companion ;  but  it  is  against 
God's  law.  Only  a  certain  section  of  the  community  permit 
it  or  condone  it.  Depend  upon  it  no  man  can  offend  the  law 
with  impunity.  It  will  have  fruit,  Sutcliffe,  it  will  have  fruit." 

The  old  man  moved  restlessly  in  his  chair.  He  gripped  at 
the  horsehair  cover,  sitting  balanced  on  the  extreme  edge. 
"Sir,"  he  said,  "I'm  not  good  at  arguments.  I  know  very 
little  about  anythin'  bar  ships  an'  the  fag-ends  of  ship  owners, 


SUTCLIFFE  SEEKS  A  REPLY  155 

but  I  put  it  this  way — two  people  can't  run  one  ship — oetween 
'em  they  will  put  her  on  the  rocks;  an'  two  people  can't  pull 
opposite  ways  at  a  gell's  strings  wi'out  harming  the  gell.  That 
I  know.  I  left  my  wife.  Right.  Why  did  I  leave  her? — 
because  we  pulled  opposite  ways.  Because  she  never  behaved 
square  to  the  lass.  Because  of  what  happened  the  other  night. 

"Sir,  "  he  went  on  with  grim  suggestion  of  the  thing  as  it 
appeared  to  him,  "is  it  a  mother's  duty  to  force  a  gell  into  the 
streets?  Is  that  what  I'm  to  expect  of  my  wife  while  I'm 
afloat?  Sir,  it's  impossible.  I'll  never  go  back." 

"A  man's  a  man,  sir,"  Mrs.  Surridge  interposed  as  her  brother 
drew  breath,  "he's  not  a  hen  to  he  plucked  an'  worrited  till 
he's  got  no  feathers  to  heft." 

The  vicar  looked  up  with  a  pained  expression.  He  was 
baffled  by  the  vigour  of  the  defence.  "I  hoped  to  induce  you 
to  side  with  me,"  he  said,  "but  I  confess  I  see  no  chance  of  it. 
I  must  leave  the  matter  to  your  brother's  conscience." 

"My  brother's  conscience  will,  I  hope,  be  found  flavoured 
with  reason,"  she  returned  as  the  battery  showed  further  signs 
of  agitation.  "Why — hif  I  treated  Tom  as  that  woman  has 
treated  Captain  Sutcliffe,  I  should  expect  to  find  myself  spread 
out  to  keep  the  top  of  a  pigsty  warm — an'  small  blame  to  Tom 
for  chuckin'  me." 

The  vicar  smiled.  The  difficulty  of  "chucking"  Mrs.  Sur- 
ridge was  so  obvious  that  even  the  gravity  of  his  cause  dis- 
appeared at  the  suggestion ;  for  Tom  was  a  small  man  and  his 
wife  as  one  of  the  daughters  of  Anak.  He  moved  towards  the 
door  under  the  new  influence. 

"Well,  well,"  he  cried,  "I  must  leave  it.  I  am  sorry,  for  I 
wished  to  help  you  and  to  help  Susie — but  it  seems  impossible." 
He  paused  hat  in  hand.  And  about  the  banns  ?"  he  questioned. 

"Banns!"  Sutcliffe  interjected,  "what  banns?" 


156  THE  ISSUE 

"Susie's." 

Sutcliffe  started  to  his  feet.  "Susie's  banns?"  he  cried. 
"Do  you  mean  the  lass  had  arranged " 

Mrs.  Surridge  interposed  with  a  quiet  glance.  "I  should 
have  told  you,  brother,"  she  said,  "I  meant  to  tell  you — but 
the  gell  bein'  so  queer  an'  everythin'  so  hurried,  clean  put  it  out 
of  my  head.  Before  she  were  driven  out  it  was  arranged  that 
they  should  be  basked.  Susie  was  to  have  been  wed  some  time 
after  you  came  home — if  so  be  you  had  no  subjections — but 
bein'  driven  out  Elliott  wanted  to  take  her  to  Riverton " 

"Elliott!" 

Sutcliffe  swayed  unsteadily  before  them.  He  stood  with 
outstretched  hands,  his  lips  moving,  the  words  falling  in  gusty 
sentences,  uneven,  broken:  "My  head's  turnin'  .  .  .  my 
head's  gone  .  .  .  dull  an'  stoopid,  like  my  life  ...  a 
job  like  that!  My  Susie's  banns  up — an'  wiv  Elliott!  Lord! 
go  easy  on  the  lass." 

The  vicar  approached.  He  seemed  at  that  moment  to 
arrive,  as  it  were,  in  the  same  plane.  He  placed  one  hand  on 
the  old  man's  shoulder,  touching  him  gently.  "Steady,  my 
friend,"  he  whispered.  "God  will  comfort  you  if  you  ask 
him." 

Sutcliffe  faced  about  with  sudden  scorn.  "Aye,"  he  said, 
"  so  I've  heerd.  So  I've  heerd. " 

Mr.  Oakley  refused  to  take  offence.  "  What  is  it  ?  "  he  ques- 
tioned. 

"  It's  this, "  said  the  old  man.     "  Elliott's  down  the  cellar. " 

"  You  mean  he  is  drowned  ?  "  the  clergyman  asked,  uncertain 
of  the  metaphor,  and  very  pale. 

"Aye,  sir — drowned,  drowned.  P'raps  cut  in  half.  God 
knows — a  job  like  that.  Gone  where  many  a  good  man's 
gone,  an'  Susie'll  have  to  pay." 


SUTCLIFFE  SEEKS  A  REPLY  157 

"Then  surely  you  will  let  me  do  what  I  can  to  clear  her  name 
— surely  in  face  of  this " 

"  Clear  her  name  ?  " 

"Unless  that  is  done  her  life  at  the  schools  must  end.  Don't 
you  see  it,  Sutcliffe  ?  Isn't  it  plain  ?  " 

"Do  you  think  there's  anythin'  to  clear — does  it  strike  you 
so  ?  You  know  her. " 

"  As  far  as  I  am  concerned — no.  But  I  have  managers  to  con- 
sider and  the  welfare  of  the  schools.  I " 

"An'  my  Susie  is  like  to  harm  it?" 

The  vicar  waved  his  hand.  "The  world,"  he  announced, 
"is  very  censorious;  we  cannot  afford  to  offend  it.  Certain 
matters  require " 

"  Then  damn  the  world, "  Sutcliffe  broke  out. 

"If  you  persist  in  talking  in  that  fashion,  I  must  go,"  said 
the  clergyman. 

"How  else  am  I  to  talk?  You  tell  me  Susie  must  clear  her 
character — clear  it  when  it's  snow!  You  tell  me  Susie's  banns 
are  up.  I  tell  you  Elliott's  charged  wiv  killin'  Dunscombe, 
that  he's  run — an'  is  down  the  cellar.  You  tell  me  Gawd  will 
comfort  me — an'  you  throw  Susie  out  as  though  she's — as 
though,"  he  broke  off,  fumbling  for  words,  "as  though  you  are 
Gawd  Almighty,  an'  can  judge " 

"That  is  blasphemy,  Sutcliffe,"  said  the  vicar  sternly.  "I 
will  not  hear  it. " 

"Beggin'  to  differ,  sir,"  the  old  man  interrupted,  "I'm  not 
wiv  you,  on  a  job  like  that.  How  it  will  be  looked  upon  when 
they  come  to  the  open  book,  I  can't  say.  But  I  don't  think  it 
will  be  chalked  up  against  me,  as  the  sayin'  is. " 

Mr.  Oakley  moved  toward  the  door,  his  face  very  white  and 
pained.  "I  am  sorry, "  he  said,  "I  hoped  to  be  able  to  aid  you 
and  to  aid  the  girl;  but " 


i58  THE  ISSUE 

"  Just  so — but  ?  "  said  the  old  man. 

"I  can  do  no  more." 

"More  can't  I." 

They  made  no  attempt  to  stay  his  exit  and  he  passed 
from  the  house  wearing  still  the  pained  expression  which  had 
dawned  at  Sutcliffe's  outbreak. 

Mrs.  Surridge  viewed  his  exit  with  distinct  pleasure. 
"Thank  goodness  for  that,"  she  remarked  after  closing  the 
door.  "Now  we  can  mend  the  china  with  our  own  cement. " 

Sutcliffe  made  no  response.  He  stood  looking  out  through 
the  window  at  the  sodden  landscape.  From  the  fields  where 
Tom  Surridge  worked,  came  the  hum  of  a  threshing  machine 
and  the  steady  drone  of  an  engine.  Plover  whirled  and 
screamed  in  a  newly  ploughed  field,  searching  the  ruts  for  food 
until  the  crack  of  a  distant  rifle  scared  them  and  they  hurried 
in  a  covey  up  wind. 

Mrs.  Surridge  advanced  and  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"What  about  this  Elliott,  George,"  she  questioned,  "is  it 
true?" 

"Aye,  sister — it's  true  enough. " 

"Then  she'll  have  to  be  told." 

"Leave  it  to  me, "  he  returned.  "Maybe  she'll  take  it  better 
from  the  old  man — a  job  like  that. " 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  DIFFICULTY  OF  BELIEF 

BUT  Sutcliffe  did  not  speak.  The  days  passed  on  and  he 
saw  Susie  so  obviously  waiting  for  news  that  he  could 
not  bring  himself  to  drive  hope  from  her.  There  was  no 
knowing,  he  decided,  in  a  case  of  this  kind.  The  lad  may 
be  down  the  cellar,  but  we  have  no  proof — only  guesswork  and 
the  talk  of  folk  down  river  way.  Sutcliffe  appraised  this  at  its 
full  value — and  found  it  unwise  to  express  an  opinion. 

In  his  heart  he  prayed  that  it  might  be  so.  The  Coroner's 
verdict  stood  as  a  bar  against  marriage.  He  argued  that  Susie 
might  get  over  death  by  drowning,  but  death  by  the  rope, 
which  seemed  possible,  was  death  and  damnation  rolled  in 
one.  No  girl  could  hope  to  make  headway  against  it. 

So  Sutcliffe  sailed  without  having  spoken,  and  Susie  sat 
down  to  watch  and  wait  in  the  chilling  silence  which  had  come 
upon  her  since  Jack  had  disappeared. 

She  had  visited  Riverton  twice  and  on  each  occasion  had 
returned  with  a  passivity  of  manner  which  completely  non- 
plussed Mrs.  Surridge;  a  passivity  which  curiously  wore  off 
as  the  days  went  by.  To-day  it  had  been  arranged  that  she  was 
to  go  once  more  to  Riverton,  and  Mrs.  Surridge  saw  that  she 
smiled  at  breakfast.  She  noted,  too,  the  sunniness  of  eyes 
which  once  had  been  always  sunny. 

Life  at  eighteen  cannot  forever  be  sombre,  nor  can  it  long 
remain,  tearful.  Youth  is  strong.  One  is  not  overwhelmed 
at  the  first  blow,  nor  perhaps,  by  the  second.  Hope  climbs 


i6o  THE  ISSUE 

amidst  the  black  clouds  which  surround  us.  The  silver  lining 
of  which  we  are  always  prattling  lies  somewhere  behind. 
Indubitably  this  must  be  so.  Something  will  happen.  Nothing 
can  be  blacker  than  the  present — besides,  when  you  think  of 
it,  are  we  not  all  children  of  circumstance  who  manage  more 
or  less  adroitly  to  adapt  ourselves  to  the  conditions  in  which 
we  move  ?  If  this  were  not  so  then  to-morrow  half  the  world 
would  be  on  its  deathbed,  unable  to  face  the  peril  with  which 
it  is  surrounded. 

The  day  was  brilliant.  September  had  gone  out  with  the 
roar  of  a  lion  and  sunny  October  had  stepped  down  to  beguile 
the  birds  into  the  belief  that  spring  was  again  at  hand.  The 
air  rang  with  countless  songsters.  The  rooks,  awakened  from 
their  lethargy,  winged  heavily  to  and  fro  the  elms  carrying 
twigs  and  pieces  of  down.  But  the  trees  belied  what  the  birds 
proclaimed  so  noisily;  for  the  long,  hot  summer  had  left  the 
leaves  no  nourishment.  The  autumn  colouring  did  not 
appear.  The  leaves  fell,  sere  and  withered,  like  old  men  at 
the  end  of  a  difficult  battle  with  life. 

And  so  it  came  about,  that  when  Tom  Surridge  made  his 
entry  with  the  trap,  Susie  looked  so  bright  that  even  Mrs.  Sur- 
ridge was  deceived.  She  decided  that  things  were  moving  in 
the  right  direction.  Apparently  they  were — for  the  two  started 
in  great  spirits  and  the  few  short  miles  seemed  as  twenty  to  the 
girl's  impetuosity. 

She  told  herself  that  to-day  there  would  be  letters.  To-day 
it  was  impossible  that  she  could  be  disappointed.  To-day — 

well,  if She  brushed  the  notion  aside  and,  as  they  clattered 

down  High  Street,  persuaded  her  uncle  to  allow  her  to  walk. 
She  desired  to  be  alone  at  the  post  office — alone  with  her  letters. 

Susie  moved  briskly  towards  her  goal,  hope  prancing  beside 
her.  She  came  to  the  steps,  entered  the  swinging  doors  and 


THE  DIFFICULTY  OF  BELIEF  161 

stood  once  more  at  the  long  counter  watching.  The  demeanour 
of  the  clerks  was  nonchalant  with  those  other  applicants.  She 
wondered  whether  they  guessed  the  importance  of  letters, 
whether  they  would  recognise  the  importance  at  all  events  of 
hers.  But  they  did  not  guess.  They  saw  a  bright  and  flushed 
face,  dancing  eyes,  and  beautiful  hair — a  pretty  girl  in  point  of 
fact,  asking  for  letters.  Everyone  desires  letters.  All  human- 
ity is  agreed  on  this  question  in  the  abstract  gaze  of  a  post  office 
official.  They  require,  simply  letters.  The  man  stared  at 
her  through  the  grille. 

"What  name?" 

"Sutcliffe— Susie  Sutcliffe." 

The  clerk  turned  out  a  bundle  and  examined  them  swiftly; 
"Sutcliffe?  No,  nothing  for  you." 

Then  hope  died. 

The  girl  swayed  at  the  counter  and  became  white  to  the  tips 
of  her  ears.  She  had  relied  on  receiving  news.  Jack  must 
have  written.  What  could  be  the  reason  of  this  silence? 
What  must  she  do?  The  look  of  concern  on  the  clerk's  face 
gave  her  strength.  She  looked  up  to  whisper:  "Are  you 
sure?" 

"I  will  look  again. " 

He  did  so.  Susie  watching  with  terrible  earnestness  until 
he  had  finished,  saw  him  again  glance  up  and  his  lips  form  the 
words:  "No,  there  are  none  at  present. " 

Still  she  watched  him.  Her  brain  was  dizzy.  The  office 
furniture  seemed  to  be  moving  before  her  eyes.  Someone  on 
the  left  was  laughing — over  in  the  corner  a  man  was  coming 
out  of  the  telephone  box.  He  was  shutting  the  door  with  an 
air  of  absurd  importance.  It  came  into  Susie's  mind  that 
she  was  on  the  verge  of  laughter,  then  she  caught  the  clerk's 
gaze  and  it  steadied  her.  It  seemed  that  she  must  say  some- 


162  THE  ISSUE 

thing,  that  the  situation  demanded  it.  And  again  came  a 
whispered  question: 

"This  is  the  General,  isn't  it?" 

"Yes." 

"How  long  do  you  keep  letters  that  are  addressed  'to  be 
called  for?'  " 

"  A  month,  perhaps  more.     It  depends. " 

"And  then?" 

"We  send  them  to  the  dead  letter  office  to  be  returned." 

The  girl  was  so  white,  so  still,  and  yet  so  beautiful,  that  the 
man  went  out  of  his  way  to  give  further  information.  He 
turned  up  a  register  and  examined  it,  asking  further  particulars 
as  he  searched: 

' '  When  did  you  expect  your  letter  ?  Any  time  this|or  last  week 
— hum.  No;  I'm  sorry  to  disappoint  you.  We  have  returned 
no  letter  in  the  interval  you  name. " 

Thus  it  was  over.  The  hope-conjured  silver  lining  sank 
through  space.  Nothing  remained  but  clouds — clouds  brim 
full  of  angry  mutterings;  charged  with  despair  and  a  curious 
medley  of  belief,  disbelief,  anger,  trust,  love,  wonder. 

Where  should  she  go  ?  It  mattered  little  where  she  went — 
Jack  had  forgotten  to  write.  What  should  she  do?  It  was 
immaterial  what  she  did — Jack  had  not  kept  his  promise;  he 
had  forgotten  her  position,  forgotten  the  stigma  of  disgrace 
that  had  fallen  upon  her — forgotten  .  .  .  forgotten  .  .  . 
and  she  was 

Susie  crept  wistfully  into  the  sunshine.  The  air  revived 
her.  She  laughed  a  little;  breathed  more  freely;  but  how 
changed,  how  cold  the  world  appeared!  The  wind  was  chill, 
the  streets  bleak;  the  passers  on  the  pavement  unduly  boister- 
ous. She  shivered,  than  drawing  her  cloak  about  her,  went 
back  to  meet  her  uncle. 


THE  DIFFICULTY  OF  BELIEF  163 

She  was  standing  at  the  appointed  place,  gazing  absently 
at  the  shops,  when  a  man  approached.  She  knew  the  step 
and  tried  ineffectually  to  draw  apart;  but  something  chained 
her  to  the  spot;  a  lethargy,  a  reluctance,  a  passive  immobility 
she  could  not  overcome.  She  was  powerless  to  make  the  neces- 
sary effort,  and,  on  turning,  saw  Saunderson  watching  intently 
all  her  movements. 

She  met  his  glance  with  the  tired  air  of  one  who  has  not 
strength  for  dispute.  She  wished  he  would  go  away,  and  leave 
her  in  peace.  She  recoiled  from  the  thought  of  speech  with 
any  one  at  this  moment;  yet,  despite  her  reluctance,  felt 
irresistibly  drawn  towards  him.  He  reached  out  and  took  her 
hand. 

"Susie,"  he  whispered,  "I'm  glad  to  see  you  again.  What 
are  you  doin'  in  Riverton  ?  " 

She  replied  with  strange  promptitude:  "Waiting  for  Uncle 
— he  is  to  drive  me  back,"  and  as  she  spoke  she  wondered 
whether  Jack  could  by  any  chance  hear  her  voice. 

Saunderson's  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her,  reading  her  face, 
searching  for  the  signals  he  hoped  to  find;  but  he  said: 

"You  look  ill:  aren't  you  well,  Lass?" 

"Yes — I  am  quite  well. " 

"Take  care  of  yourself,  Susie.  You  are  not  strong — may  I 
stay  till  Uncle  comes?" 

She  looked  up  with  a  little  shiver  of  dread.  "If  you  wish 
to,"  she  replied. 

"If  I  wish  to!  Susie,  you  know  I  wish  to.  You  know  I 
would  never  leave  you — if  you  gave  me  the  right  to  stay  by." 
Then  after  a  pause,  and  as  the  girl  made  no  response.  "When 
are  you  comin'  back  to  Abbeyville.  The  place  is  fair  stale 
wivout  you." 

The  man  spoke  with  an  intensity  that  was  strange  consider- 


164  THE  ISSUE 

ing  their  relations.  It  was  a  risky  question;  but  Susie  did  not 
notice  it.  She  was  concerned  with  the  indefiniteness  of  her 
knowledge  about  Jack — Jack,  who  had  promised  to  write,  who 
had  promised  to  call  her  to  him  and  rivet  that  marriage  which 
had  been  so  strangely  interrupted — Jack,  who  had  forgotten 
.  ;  .  forgotten. 

She  had  fallen  again  into  the  apathy  which  had  marked  her 
attitude  on  those  days  following  her  lover's  departure,  before 
her  father  had  arrived. 

"I  shall  never  return  to  Abbeyville, "  she  answered  at  length, 
speaking  like  a  child  who  has  learned  a  lesson  but  does  not 
understand  its  application. 

"There  are  worse  places  than  Abbeyville  to  live  in,  Susie." 

"Perhaps." 

"Then  why  not  come  back.  I  might  be  able  to  help  you  if 
you  gave  me  the  chance — the  right.  Why  don't  you  come 
back?" 

Susie  stood  fidgetting  with  her  cloak.  The  weight  oppressed 
her;  she  buttoned  and  unbuttoned  the  fastenings;  then  she 
looked  up:  "  Oh,  because  I'm  a  girl,  I  suppose.  Only  men  can 
do  as  they  will. " 

Saunderson  breathed  hard.  He  touched  the  restless  hand 
and  she  became  still. 

"Give  me  the  chance,"  he  whispered,  "give  me  the  chance 
to  guard  you;  then  you  may  go,  an'  do  what  you  will. " 

"Do  you  mean  that?" 

"You  know  I  do.     Susie,  you  know  I  mean  it. " 

She  did  not  see  his  face;  she  was  staring  down  the  street, 
marking  the  throng  and  bustle  of  the  busy  world;  noting  the 
haste,  the  rush,  and  purpose  on  the  people's  faces,  and  wonder- 
ing whether  they  knew  that  Jack  had  forgotten  to  write; 
whether  they  would  care  if  they  did  know;  whether  it  would 


THE  DIFFICULTY  OF  BELIEF  165 

make  them  sympathetic  or  disdainful.  Then  she  became  aware 
that  Saunderson  was  still  watching,  and  she  spoke: 

"Nonsense,"  she  said,  "you  only  think  you  mean  it." 

"Susie,  before  God  I " 

"That  is  the  way  with  men,  before  marriage,"  she  inter- 
rupted, with  a  touch  of  scorn. 

"Susie — hear  me — 

"But  afterwards,"  she  resumed  with  steady  apathy,  "after- 
wards, they  forget.  They  are  all  alike  in  that.  They  for- 
get." 

Saunderson  tried  to  take  her  hand,  but  the  noise  of  approach- 
ing wheels  had  attracted  her  attention.  She  saw  her  uncle 
driving  up  the  street,  and  in  a  moment  had  turned  to  meet 
him. 

"Law!  Susie!"  cried  the  little  man,  as  he  jumped  to  the 
pavement,  "how  white  you  are  to  be  sure.  You've  done  too 
much  walking.  I  shouldn't  a  let  you. " 

She  looked  up  cheerily:  "Thanks,  I  am  all  right.  I  can  rest 
on  the  way  back.  Besides,  what  does  it  matter?" 

Surridge  watched  her  in  mute  astonishment. 

"What  the  old  woman,  your  auntie,  my  dear,  will  say  if  she 
sees  you  like  that,  Law  only  knows, "  said  Tom  with  conviction. 
"I  shouldn't  have  allowed  it.  Why!"  he  continued,  as  he 
reached  forward  to  gather  up  the  reins,  "if  that  ain't  Jim 
Saunderson. " 

"Drive  on,"  Susie  cried  sharply,  "I  am  tired." 

Surridge  stared,  then  waving  his  hand  he  turned  the  horse 
towards  home. 

"Were  you  speakin'  to  him,  Susie?" 

"He  came  up.    I — I  couldn't  get  away,"  she  stammered. 

Tom  noted  the  tell-tale  face  with  a  quiet  chuckle. 

"Law!"  he  said,  "why  should  you?    There's  no  harm  in  a 


166  THE  ISSUE 

gell  speakin'  to  a  man.  'Sides,  he's  a  fine-built  chap,  so  Auntie 
says,  an'  has  been  won'erful  good  to  father. " 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

The  question  rang  so  suddenly  that  Tom  gave  the  mare  an 
unnecessary  flick  which  sent  her  spinning  resentfully  onward, 
faster  than  was  wise  in  the  streets. 

"What  do  I  mean?"  he  cried  between  vigorous  "Whoahs. " 
and  "Steady  there,"  and  a  judicious  tightening  of  the  reins. 
"Why,  bless  the  gell,  what  do  it  sound  like?" 

"I  always  thought,"  Susie  returned,  "that  father  disliked 
Saunderson. " 

"Not  more  than  I  do,  Susie.  Woah  then!  Gently  does  it, 
or  we  shall  have  you  all  of  a  lather — Susie, "  Tom  went  on,  a 
curious  dread  depicted  on  his  face,  as  it  suddenly  dawned  upon 
him  that  he  was  breaking  one  of  his  wife's  most  particular 
injunctions,  "I'm  all  adrift.  P'raps  I'm  wrong  also — it  was 
someone  at  Abbeyville,  an'  his  name  began  with  a  S.  We'll  say 
no  more  about  it. " 

Susie  made  no  further  remark.  She  understood  the  niceties 
of  the  position,  for  Tom  Surridge  was  a  small,  meek  man,  and 
his  wife,  as  all  Swinfleet  knew,  was  much  larger.  It  was  easy 
to  see  that  he  had  blundered,  though  why  she  was  being  kept 
in  ignorance,  was  beyond  her  comprehension  at  this  moment. 
She  was  concerned  much  more  with  the  ineffaceable  fact  that 
Jack  had  forgotten  to  write,  that  Jack,  with  her  kisses  on  his 
face,  the  remembrance  of  her  passionate  appeal  to  be  taken 
with  him  ringing  in  his  ears,  that  Jack  had  forgotten.  Or, 
had  he  forgotten?  Had  something  happened?  Was  there 
any  truth  in  the  report  that  he  was  in  love  with  that  girl  ?  She 
pushed  the  suggestion  from  her.  It  was  impossible.  He 
might  have  forgotten  to  write,  but  the  other  was  absurd.  She 
decided  that  it  would  be  better  to  wait.  It  came  into  her 


THE  DIFFICULTY  OF  BELIEF  167 

mind,  too,  that  she  might  question  her  father  on  his  return 
about  Saunderson — and  Jack. 

Late  that  evening,  while  they  were  all  sitting  around  the  fire 
after  supper,  Tom  left  his  place  and  went  out  to  see  to  the  pigs 
and  poultry  before  shutting  the  house  for  the  night.  When 
they  were  alone,  Mrs.  Surridge  turned  to  the  girl  and  said: 

"So  you  saw  Jim  Saunderson  in  town  to-day?" 

Susie  replied  in  the  affirmative,  but  evinced  no  desire  to  con- 
tinue the  conversation. 

"A  fine  built  chap,  that,"  Mrs.  Surridge  expatiated,  "a  per- 
feck  galliator,  Susie.  I  wouldn't  be  surprised  if  he  finds  it 
lonesome  at  Abbeyville  now  somebody's  away?" 

"Men,"  the  girl  averred  with  a  scarcely  veiled  sneer,  "have 
the  knack  of  adapting  themselves  to  circumstances.  New 
faces  are  always  an  attraction." 

Mrs.  Surridge  came  over  and  put  her  arms  about  the  girl's 
neck.  "Then  don't  you  think  we  might  take  a  leaf  out  of  their 
book  ?  "  she  questioned. 

Susie  sat  in  silence,  her  lips  closed,  her  eyes  concentrated  on 
the  glowing  fire.  But  she  saw  nothing  more  pertinent  than 
the  figure  of  a  man  moving  down  the  river  in  a  boat;  passing 
the  piers,  passing  the  shipping,  and  rowing,  always  rowing 
out  into  the  distant  fog.  Some  sparks  shot  out  across  the  hearth 
the  coal  sank  in  the  grate ;  then  Mrs.  Surridge's  voice  fell  upon 
her  ears  again.  "That's  letters  for  someone,"  she  was  saying. 
"Leastways,  it  used  to  be  letters  in  my  time,  I  remember. " 

Susie  looked  up  with  a  sudden  question.  "  Don't  you  think 
it  means  that  the  night  is  getting  frosty?" 

"La!  what  a  material  thing  it  is,"  Mrs.  Surridge  droned, 
"  with  no  more  seltiment  about  it  than  a  whipped  babby.  Why, 
Susie,  when  I  was  your  age,  sparks  fleckin'  out  of  the  fire  set 


i68  THE  ISSUE 

me  thinkin'  an'  dreamin'  by  the  hour.  If  it  didn't  mean  letters 
from  one,  it  meant  letters  from  another.  Off  with  the  old  love, 
on  with  the  new,  Susie.  That  was  my  motta,  an'  I  kept  the 
lads  dancin',  I  warrant.  Why,  if  you  can't  make  'em  dance 
before  you're  wed,  you  may  be  sure  you'll  stand  precious  little 
chance  after." 

Susie  remained  quite  still.  In  her  mind  there  moved  a 
curious  medley  of  boats  and  ships  and  dancing  mannikins. 
Something  appealed  to  her  risible  faculties  and  she  smiled; 
then  again  instantly  fell  into  the  old  calm  attitude  of  waiting. 
Mrs.  Surridge  sat  back  hi  her  chair  watching  the  pale,  set  face. 
She  knew  from  Susie's  remarks  some  time  since,  that  she  ex- 
pected to  hear  from  Jack,  and  knew  from  her  husband  of  the 
changed  tone  when  he  again  picked  her  up  in  Riverton.  She 
drew  her  own  conclusions,  but  like  many  a  kindly  chatterer, 
desired  to  know  definitely  whether  there  had  been  any  news. 
For,  as  Sutcliffe  said,  "one  never  can  swear  a  man's  down  the 
cellar  until  the  body's  found."  That  was  true.  It  was  an 
axiom  which  even  Mrs.  Surridge  could  understand.  So  far 
only  a  boat,  a  coat,  and  Susie's  note  had  been  discovered.  If 
a  letter  had  come  it  would  be  prima  facie  evidence  that  Jack 
had  not  been  drowned.  She  leaned  forward  now  and  whis- 
pered the  question  direct: 

"Did  you  get  any  news  from — you  know  who,  to-day, 
Susie?" 

The  girl's  lips  quivered.  She  grew  quickly  very  white.  "No, 
Auntie." 

"  Did  you  expect  one,  deary  ?    Was  it  very  impertant  ?  " 

Susie  rose,  her  face  flushing,  her  breast  heaving,  her  eyes 
staring:  "Don't!  don't!"  she  begged.  "He  was  to  have  been 
my  husband — and  now " 

Mrs.  Surridge  stood  beside  her,  taking  the  poor  scared  eyes 


THE  DIFFICULTY  OF  BELIEF  169 

to  her  breast;  soothing  her  as  she  would  a  child,  and  mumbling 
all  the  while  a  paltry  flow  of  quaint  advice: 

"La,  Susie!  don't  take  on;  don't  fret — there's  a  deary.  It'll 
spoil  your  bright  eyes  and  bring  down  the  corners  of  your  mouth 
— give  you  more  lines  than  bringin'  up  a  fam'ly.  Sho!  Bless 
us  an'  keep  us — there's  just  as  good  fish  in  the  sea  as  ever  was 
catched." 


CHAPTER  VII 
A  CURTAIN  LECTURE 

IT'S  my  belief,"  said  Mrs.  Surridge  to  the  room  generally, 
but    to    her    husband   in    particular,    "that  the  pretty 
lamb  is  frettin'  her  soul  to  fritters." 

There  was  no  response;  the  room  was  in  darkness  and  Tom 
sleeping  noisily,  with  his  face  to  the  wall.  His  evident  im- 
munity from  earthly  worries,  struck  his  wife  in  the  light  of 
sacrilege.  She  could  not  sleep  for  anxiety  about  Susie;  why, 
therefore,  should  he?  She  twisted  uneasily  from  side  to  side, 
earnestly  seeking  oblivion  and  wrecking  the  symmetry  of  the 
bed.  At  last,  turning  on  her  back  she  expostulated  with  her 
silent  lord. 

"Tom!"  she  cried. 

Tom  only  snored  the  louder. 

"  Tom! .     .    .    Sakes!  what  a  bugil  you  have  to  be  sure." 

"Dang  they  pigs!"  said  Tom  from  the  pillows. 

"'Tain't  the  pigs,  Tom— it's  me." 

This  should  have  been  sufficient  even  in  these  days  of  strong 
womanhood  and  jeering  comments  on  the  powers  of  a  sex 
once  called  chivalrous.  Tom  should  have  risen  to  the  occasion. 
But  he  did  not  rise.  He  grunted  inaudibly  instead;  for  he  was 
a  small  man  and  very  weary. 

"I  never  see  anyone  sleep  like  you,  Surridge,"  said  his  wife 
again.  "If  you  were  a  toper  there  would  be  some  excuse  for 
it,  but  you  couldn't  sleep  heavier." 

"The  pigs  is  all  comferable,  Mary.  I  see  to  'em  afore  I 
locked  up — likewise  the  fowils." 

170 


A  CURTAIN  LECTURE  171 

"I  said  to-night,"  returned  his  wife,  "that  unless  a  lass  made 
her  man  jump  afore  she's  wed,  she  might  holla  for  him  to 
jump  afterwards,  with  no  more  effect  than  the  bustin*  of  a 
blood  wessel." 

Surridge  made  no  reply.  It  was  evident  from  the  sounds 
that  he  had  again  fallen  asleep.  The  moonlight  peeped  in 
through  the  lattice,  throwing  elongated  diamonds  across  the 
white  bed  covering.  Mrs.  Surridge  sat  up  and  surveyed  her 
husband. 

"It's  my  belief,"  she  asserted,  "that  you  have  a  diseage." 
Tom  turned  on  his  side  and  groaned  a  reply:  "Sometimes  I 
think  it's  a  pity  I  ain't  stone  deaf,"  he  retorted. 

"You  are  worse  than  that." 

Surridge  lifted  himself  on  his  elbow,  now  fully  awakened. 

"What's  wrong,  Missis?  Ain't  you  near  done  talkin'?"  he 
cried. 

"It's  my  belief,"  said  Mrs.  Surridge,  realising  that  at  last 
she  had  succeeded  in  overcoming  his  lethargy,  "it's  my  belief 
that  the  pretty  lamb  is  fritterin'  her  soul  to  fretters." 

"What  pretty  lamb?"  he  questioned.  "We  haven't  got 
any  lamb  as  I  know  of." 

"It's  a  diseage  you've  got,  Tom — there's  no  two  ways  about 
that,  an'  its  name  is  deaf  an  '  stoopid." 

"Why  can't  you  talk  sense  if  you  must  talk?"  he  cried  with 
a  groan. 

"You  used  to  think  I  talked  sense,"  Mrs.  Surridge  replied, 
shaking  the  bed  in  her  agitation.  "You  used  to  say  I  talked 
like  honey  droppin'  from  the  comb." 

Tom  became  mindful  of  an  increasing  desire  for  sleep;  he 
also  recognised  that  until  he  had  got  to  the  bottom  of  this 
trouble,  he  would  have  no  chance;  he  replied,  therefore,  with 
an  evasion: 


1 72  THE  ISSUE 

"So  you  did,  Mary — an'  I  can't  say  I've  ever  had  cause  to 
alter  them  words." 

"That's  the  sweetest  thing  you've  said  for  months,"  cried 
Mrs.  Surridge  as  she  administered  a  caress.  "It's  about 
Susie." 

Tom  withdrew  to  the  farthest  limit  of  the  bed.  "Oh,  about 
Susie,"  he  said,  "  what  about  her?" 

"She's  pining  for  letters  from  that  Jack  Elliott." 

"Ah!" 

"An*  from  all  we  can  find  out,  Elliott's  dead." 

Tom  sighed,  but  remained  otherwise  silent.  His  wife 
resumed: 

"She  musn't  be  let  pine,  Tom.  She's  too  good  to  be 
throwed  away  single  all  her  life.  It  would  be  shockin'." 

"So  it  would,"  he  assented  with  sympathy. 

"Jim  Saunderson  is  a  fine  figure  of  a  man,  Tom — an'  most 
attentive,  I'm  sure." 

"Too  podgy  about  the  waist,"  said  Tom  decisively,  "an'  I 
don't  like  the  wein  that  shows  in  his  forehead,  ner  his  eyes, 
ner " 

"You  never  did  like  a  big  man  so  far  as  I  can  remember," 
Mrs.  Surridge  threw  out. 

Tom  was  silent.  He  was  a  small  man,  a  perfect  whipper- 
snapper,  to  speak  correctly,  and  Mrs.  Surridge  had  remarked 
upon  it  before.  So  he  lay  silent,  waiting  for  the  end  of  things. 

"I  call  Jim  Saunderson  a  fine  figure  of  a  man.  He'd  do 
any  woman  credit,  he  would." 

"Susie  may  have  so'thin'  to  say  about  that,  Mary." 

"You  leave  it  to  me." 

"An*  suppose  Jack  Elliott  ain't  dead — suppose " 

"Don't  be  a  hass,  Tom.  Susie  mustn't  wait  on  Elliott — 
for  reasons.  You  take  the  tip  from  me — if  I  want  you  to  back 


A  CURTAIN  LECTURE  173 

me  up  I'll  look  at  you,  otherwise,  let  it  be  to  me.  Why,  Saun- 
derson  is  the  very  man  to  make  her  a  good  husband. 

"'Sides,"  she  continued,  "Susie  couldn't  marry  Jack  Elliott 
now,  not  even  if  he  were  back  again — not  respectable,  she 
couldn't.  Jack's  livin'  under  a  shadda — murder  may  not  have 
been  done  by  him,  but,"  Mrs.  Surridge  pursed  her  lips,  speak- 
ing with  decision,  "it's  what  is  fastened  on  him,  an'  no  gell  can 
wed  a  man  with  a  shadda  an'  be  happy." 

Tom  breathed  heavily.  He  never  felt  more  inclined  to 
expostulate  in  his  life,  but  he  was  sleepy,  and  desired  above  all 
things  to  be  at  liberty  to  turn  his  face  to  the  wall.  He  consented 
without  words. 

"You  know  as  well  as  me,  Tom,"  his  wife  continued  cheerily, 
"that  I  don't  hold  with  choppin'  an'  changin'  your  lovers.  But 
this  is  not  what  you  might  call  an  ordinally  case — in  fact  it's 
extre-ordinally.  There's  been  murder  done,  an'  there's  no 
sayin'  who's  done  it — but,  it's  cloaked  on  Elliott.  An'  even  if 
Elliott  conies  back,  which  I  consider  impossible,  he  mustn't  wed 
Susie.  In  f ack  he  mustn't  be  let  have  the  chance ;  Susie  must 
be  tied  up  to  once." 

Tom  grunted  sleepily,  but  it  was  sufficient  acknowledgment 
to  induce  Mrs.  Surridge  to  continue  her  remarks.  Indeed, 
had  he  consented  to  grunt  at  appropriate  intervals,  she  would 
have  talked  indefinitely,  for,  like  Micky  Doolan,  she  loved 
nothing  better  than  the  sound  of  her  own  arguments. 

"An*  seein'  Susie  must  wed  some  other  body,"  she  asserted 
to  the  room  in  general,  "  Saunderson  would  be  the  very  man  for 
my  money.  He's  just  the  right  height,  an'  build,  an'  has 
settled  down  with  a  bit  of  savings  put  by.  He's  a  man —  only, 
it  must  be  done  judicious;  no  forcin'  the  gell,  Tom — no — Tom! 

"  Blest  if  he  ain't  asleep  again.  Sakes ! "  she  cried  after  survey- 
ing him  on  raised  elbow;  "  the  way  some  men  do  sleep  is  so'thin' 
crewl.  It's  a  diseage — that's  what  I  call  it. " 


CHAPTER  VIII 
ZULU  SUPPLIES  A  PARALLEL 

SUSIE'S  reading  of  the  prophecy  of  the  sparks  was  nearer 
the  truth  than  she  imagined  when  suggesting  it.  Day 
after  day  passed;  the  weather  became  steadily  colder; 
winter  was  at  hand,  winter  and  silence — the  silence  of  death. 

Jack  had  not  written.  At  first  it  seemed  possible  that  his 
letters  had  been  lost;  but  with  time  there  came  questioning 
doubts.  All  the  letters  could  not  have  been  lost,  for  instance. 
The  idea  was  manifestly  absurd.  And  if  he  had  not  written — 
why?  Was  it  that  he  had  forgotten?  The  notion  passed  her 
mind  in  many  forms.  Only  those  who  have  waited  quite  under- 
stand the  sting  of  it.  This  craving  for  news  was  slowly  eating 
into  the  girl's  life.  Cynicism  found  voice — no  man,  she  told 
herself,  could  forget  so  soon. 

Yet,  despite  her  torture,  it  was  only  at  intervals  that  she 
relapsed  into  the  apathetic  condition  which  had  so  alarmed 
her  friends.  Indeed  no  one  could  long  remain  dull  in  a  house 
containing  such  a  bundle  of  good  nature  as  Mrs.  Surridge. 

If  she  thought  the  girl  looked  more  than  usually  wan,  she 
took  her  by  the  sleeve  and  laughed  and  joked  until  Tom  was 
"fair  'mazed  with  the  tack  of  the  old  woman,"  as  he  expressed 
it.  He  was  careful  naturally  to  keep  this  view  of  the  case  for 
communication  to  the  pigs  and  fowls  which  he  visited  at  odd 
intervals  during  his  meal  hours.  At  this  time  it  was  not  at  all 
unusual  to  hear  ringing  peals  of  laughter  issuing  from  the 
kitchen,  and  to  see  the  door  slowly  open  in  order  that  Tom 


ZULU  SUPPLIES  A  PARALLEL  175 

might  emerge  to  give  his  opinion  to  the  pigs.  This  done  he 
would  return,  winking  solemnly,  and  sit  down  to  finish  his 
dinner  or  his  pipe,  and  ruminate  on  the  inexplicable  aspect 
of  affairs,  until  it  was  time  to  trudge  back  to  his  work. 

Before  many  days  had  elapsed  Susie  discovered  that  her 
uncle  drove  frequently  into  Riverton,  and  found  him  willing  to 
call  at  the  post  office.  She  discovered  also  the  drift  of  her  aunt's 
remarks  on  the  manly  beauty  of  Jim  Saunderson,  and  so,  hav- 
ing established  a  primitive  code,  would  wait  an  opportunity  of 
putting  her  questions  without  that  lady's  knowledge. 

"Did  you  call,  Uncle?" 

"Aye,  Susie." 

"Anything  for  me?" 

"Nothin',  Susie." 

Sometimes  the  dearth  of  news  was  passed  simply  from  one  to 
the  other  in  silence.  The  girl,  watching  her  chances,  would  look 
across  the  table  with  her  pretty  forehead  puckered  over  raised 
brows;  and  Tom  would  gaze  solemnly  into  his  plate  or  cup, 
and  frown  and  shake  his  head  as  though  he  saw  the  devil  lurk- 
ing there.  After  this  he  usually  rose  and  went  out  to  talk  with 
the  piglings.  It  was  his  safety  valve.  Some  men  work  off 
their  steam  by  swearing,  but  Surridge  leaned  over  the  sty  doors 
in  silent  meditation  on  the  prolific  generosity  of  mother  pigs.  To 
them  he  could  give  his  opinions  free  of  restraint.  To  give  them 
to  Mrs.  Surridge  was  to  produce  a  curtain  lecture  of  the  Caudle 
brand.  Tom  preferred  a  lecture  from  the  pigs. 

Thus  the  time  passed  until,  one  day,  nearly  two  months 
after  Jack's  departure,  Surridge  returned  from  Riverton  with 
a  companion  seated  beside  him  in  the  trap. 

Susie  had  been  a  long  while  standing  near  the  gate  in  antici- 
pation of  her  uncle's  coming,  wondering  with  great  round  eyes 
what  the  day  held  in  store  for  her,  wondering  whether  by  chance 


i76  THE  ISSUE 

a  letter  was  on  its  way  to  greet  her —  whether  Jack  had  written, 
whether  he  would  write,  whether  he  had  ever  intended  to  write. 
Then,  on  looking  up,  she  saw  the  trap  and  the  second  figure. 
At  once  she  imagined  it  to  be  her  father,  returned  earlier  by  a 
few  days  than  had  been  expected.  But  closer  inspection  re- 
vealed no  clean-shaven  face  nor  stooping  back.  It  revealed 
a  taller,  bigger  man,  a  man  with  a  beard — Jim  Saunderson. 

For  a  moment  the  girl  meditated  feigning  sickness,  but 
relented  on  recognising  the  absurdity  of  such  a  course.  She 
stood  her  ground  therefore,  and  met  her  uncle's  evident  disap- 
proval with  all  the  sang-froid  she  could  muster.  Then,  leading 
the  way  within,  stood  a  minute  telegraphing,  and  fled  to  her 
room. 

There  were  no  letters.    Again  were  there  no  letters. 

Susie  threw  herself  across  the  bed  foot.  She  lay  prone  upon 
her  back,  staring  at  the  ceiling,  marking  the  lines  in  the  old 
oak  beam;  counting  the  cracks,  the  holes,  the  wonderful  maze 
of  minute  holes — all  no  larger  than  pin-pricks  in  the  wood. 

There  were  no  letters.  She  questioned  why  she  was  left  in 
this  horrible  suspense  ?  Why  had  he  not  written  ?  Would  he 
ever  write?  Would  he?  Would  he?  Surely  he  could  do 
so  if  he  chose.  She  could  have  found  a  way.  Anyone 
who  so  desired  it  could  find  a  way.  Why  then  had  Jack  not 
found  it? 

A  long  while  she  lay  thus,  her  eyes  dry,  her  face  flushed, 
her  brain  aching  with  the  tension.  She  desired  above  all  things 
an  answer  to  this  question, — "Why  ?"  But  it  eluded  her.  In 
vapouring  shapes,  high  among  the  shadows  behind  the  old 
beams,  it  stole  about,  mocking,  laughing,  refusing  capture. 
Two  months  had  passed!  She  whispered  it  with  a  tense  expres- 
sion .  .  .  two  months,  and  he  had  promised  to  call  her  to 
him  at  once.  Yet  no  word  had  come.  A  silence,  deep  as  the 


ZULU  SUPPLIES  A  PARALLEL  177 

silence  of  the  fields,  had  fallen  upon  his  movements.  It  had 
crept  into  her  life.  A  silence  filled  with  dread,  straining  her 
nerves,  banishing  sleep — making  her  doubt  the  actuality  of 
accomplished  facts.  Yet  did  she  pause  to  consider,  they  stood 
out,  a  hideous  array,  droning  a  song  whose  burden  was  desertion. 
How  trite  a  tale  for  her  friends  to  read;  how  stale,  how  paltry, 
how  humiliating !  She,  who  had  held  so  high  a  head,  who  had 
spoken  always  of  love  as  the  sole  necessity  in  marriage — and 
now  they  could  sneer,  all  of  them,  pointing  out  her  indiscre- 
tions with  the  finger  of  unctuous  scorn. 

She  turned  from  the  difficult  problem  of  finding  an  answer, 
and  hiding  her  face  found  herself  crying  without  tears:  "  Oh, 

it  is  cruel — cruel!  I  cannot  bear  it.  I  cannot "  She 

started  at  the  knowledge  the  words  conveyed  and  again  faced 
the  ceiling. 

The  maze  met  her.  Cracks  leading  to  nothing.  Holes  that 
were  uncountable.  Marks  that  led  nowhither — and  amidst  it 
all  a  wonderful  legend,  a  legend  which  bid  her  hope,  which  bid 
her  wait.  Which  whispered  of  something  more — something 
she  could  not  trace — high  up  there,  amidst  the  plaster  or  the 
beams  or  the  crevices  that  would  not  stay  filled. 

Again  a  voice,  not  her  own,  but  her  aunt's,  calling  from  the 
stair-foot,  bade  her  come  down  to  tea. 

The  notion  appalled  her.  The  commonplace  necessity  of  the 
thing  echoed  like  a  laugh  in  her  brain.  But  she  rose  at  once, 
wondering  at  the  simplicity  which  had  suggested  abstinence. 
She  crossed  the  room  and  came  to  the  door,  calling  as  she 
moved:  "Yes,  yes,  coming,  Auntie,"  then,  turning,  stood 
before  the  glass. 

What  flushed  cheeks,  what  frightened  eyes,  what  a  tumbled 

head!  Could  it  be  herself,  or  had  she — had  she She 

used  to  be  self-possessed,  self-reliant.  People  had  said  so. 


178  THE  ISSUE 

Now  her  self-control  had  vanished  and  self-reliance  was  going 
also. 

Like  steam  thrown  into  a  fog,  it  melted  and  disappeared. 
Against  her  will  the  thought  crept  like  a  shadow — Jack  had 
forgotten. 

In  the  kitchen  they  were  waiting  for  her.  She  bustled  about 
composing  her  features  and  arrived  with  cold  eyes,  white  cheeks 
and  statuesque  pose;  silent,  watching,  searching  their  faces. 
Tea  was  spread  and  Saunderson  stood  near  the  fire  talking ;  but 
as  she  entered  he  crossed  over  and  took  her  hand.  Tom  Surridge 
noting  her  scared  expression  hastened  into  the  yard  on  a 
fancied  errand  to  the  pigs. 

"La!"  cried  Mrs.  Surridge  as  she  became  aware  of  her  hus- 
band's departure;  "I  never  see  such  a  man.  If  they  were  his 
own  children,  he  couldn't  do  more  for  'em. " 

Susie  considered  the  mattter  from  an  immense  distance.  She 
gathered  the  meaning  of  his  exit  and  set  herself  to  act  as  though 
no  question  throbbed  in  her  brain;  as  though  no  thought  had 
stolen  upon  her  and  refused  to  be  dismissed.  She  laughed 
softly — the  ghost  of  laughter  merely,  and  was  astonished  to 
notice  how  they  stared.  Then  her  uncle  returned,.  He  found 
that  they  had  not  waited.  His  wife  presided  at  the  table  whence 
she  dispensed  tea  and  smiles;  and,  most  curious  phase  of  all, 
Susie  seemed  to  be  entering  into  the  fun  of  the  thing  with  as 
much  zest  as  her  aunt. 

Surridge  took  his  place  in  silence.  He  understood  women 
collectively  as  little  as  his  wife  understood  him.  He  only  saw 
that  his  guest  was  the  recipient  of  all  the  favours  of  the  party, 
and  frowned  and  shook  his  head  quite  unguardedly. 

"I  didn't  bring  no  letters, "  he  thought.  "I  never  signalled  I 
did.  What's  come  to  the  gell,  I  can't  think,  no  more  than  Zulu 
can." 


ZULU  SUPPLIES  A  PARALLEL  179 

Zulu  was  the  sow. 

"  Seems  to  me  I'd  best  let  things  went, "  he  said  aloud. 

"What  things,  Tom?" 

"Zulu's  number  four  have  got  her  ear  cut,"  he  replied, 
steadily  returning  his  wife's  gaze. 

"Oh— how  did  that  come?" 

"She  were  friendly  with  Jacob — from  the  lower  sty — an 
Zulu's  put  her  nose  in ;  wants  her  to  take  up  with  old  Tammas. 
It  ain't  fair  on  Jacob,  so  he's  split  her  ear." 

"Tom!"  cried  his  wife  with  mock  severity;  "you're  a  dis- 
grace to  any  Christian  woman,  with  your  stories  an'  your 
fencies — 'a-done! " 

She  laughed  heartily  as  she  spoke,  utterly  oblivious  of  the 
fable's  application;  Then,  noticing  Susie's  flushed  cheeks, 
shook  her  head  and  started  a  new  subject  as  though  to  the 
manner  born.  So  they  continued,  laughing  and  chatting  until, 
tea  having  come  to  an  end,  Mrs.  Surridge  rose  and,  signing  to 
her  husband,  left  the  room.  Saunderson  at  once  crossed  over 
and  stood  by  the  girl. 

"Have  you  thought  any  more  about  coming  back  to  Abbey- 
ville?"  he  questioned. 

Susie  looked  up.  Her  face  betrayed  no  astonishment,  no 
anger;  it  might  have  been  the  veriest  trifle  that  he  had  sug- 
gested in  those  ringing  tones  he  knew  so  well  how  to  use.  She 
said: 

"No,"  and  then,  "why  should  I?" 

"  Can't  you  do  anything  for  my  sake;  can't  you — can't  you  ? " 
he  reiterated. 

Again  the  answer  fell  without  a  vestige  of  self-consciousness, 
utterly  cold,  unutterably  pathetic:  "No — why  should  I?" 

Saunderson  caught  her  by  the  hand,  staring  into  her  beauti- 
ful eyes,  his  face  flushed,  his  voice  trembling  with  emotion. 


180  THE  ISSUE 

"Because  I  love  you,  Susie.  Because  I  love  you  and  would 
die  to  see  you  happy." 

She  drew  back  with  a  sudden  movement  and  cried  with 
vehemence: 

"Love!  Nonsense!  There  is  no  such  thing;  there  never 
was — never  will  be.  Yet,  once,  I  believed  in  love;  but  that 
was  long  ago  .  .  .  long  ago — do  you  understand?  long — 
long  ago." 

She  spoke  with  such  passion,  clasping  and  unclasping  her 
hands,  that  Saunderson,  watching  and  abashed,  could  only 
gaze  in  silence;  hungrily,  as  one  who  would  dare  all  for  the 
sake  of  simple  possession;  who  had  it  in  mind  to  catch  that 
frail,  palpitating  soul  in  his  arms  and  hold  her  there  till  she 
promised  to  comply  with  his  desire.  But  he  retained  his  self- 
control  by  a  strong  effort  and  continued  to  urge  his  cause. 

"Susie,"  he  begged,  "you  don't  know  how  I  want  to  help 
you;  how  I  would  do  anything  on  earth  to  make  you  think 
better  of  me.  I  would  go  on  my  knees  to  you — if  I  thought  it 
would  do  me  any  good;  I  would  lie  down  an'  let  you  kick  me 
with  your  little  shoe — if  I  thought  you  would  be  any  prouder  of 
me — but  it  wouldn't  help  me —  it  wouldn't  help  me — Susie! 
what  shall  I  do — what  shall  I  say?" 

"Say?    Nothing.     Words  mean  so  much — sometimes." 

Saunderson  drew  back  a  pace;  his  eyes  took  a  new  tinge. 

"No,"  he  cried,  "I  won't  go  on  my  knees  to  you — because — 
it  would  make  you  despise  me — that's  why.  A  woman  de- 
spises a  man  that  treats  her  always  with  honey.  Very  well — 
I  don't  go  on  my  knees  to  you;  but  I  stand  here  now  an'  tell 
you  that  presently  you'll  wed  Jim  Saunderson;  that  you'll  wed 
him  whether  you  love  him  or  not — because  you  won't  be  able 
to  help  yourself." 

He  advanced  a  step  nearer,  extending  his  arms:   "Come," 


ZULU  SUPPLIES  A  PARALLEL  181 

he  cried,  "don't  try  to  fight  me;  don't  try  to  drive  me  away. 
It  isn't  any  use.  I  don't  ask  for  too  much  love — I  don't  ask 
for  too  many  kisses.  I  ask  for  you.  Come,  child — it  will  be 
easier  than  fighting  me — easier — easier.  Oh,  God  love  you, 
come  to  me.  There's  nothin'  I  won't  do  for  you — nothin' 
nothin' " 

His  appeal  left  her  entirely  unmoved.  She  faced  him; 
looked  into  his  eyes,  noted  his  gestures — but  there  the  matter 
ended;  oblivion  stepped  in,  and  that  cold,  methodical,  precise 
speech  which  so  annoyed  him,  came  to  her  aid. 

"I  have  no  wish  to  be  married,"  she  said  at  length.  "I 
don't  think  you  can  say  that  I  encouraged  you.  I  don't " 

"Encouraged  me!"  Saunderson  laughed  grimly.  It  seemed 
such  an  excellent  joke — encouraged  him — he  was  uncertain 
whether  she  deliberately  designed  to  anger  and  insult  him,  or 
whether His  voice  leaped  upon  his  thoughts. 

"Encourage  me!  Aye,  if  'go  to  hell'  is  encouragement — 
then  you  have  encouraged  me — not  else." 

She  took  no  notice;  his  violence  escaped  her;  she  said  very 
quietly:  "I  am  sorry." 

"So  am  I." 

"And  I  hope  you  will  forget  all  about — this — this  conver- 
sation; and  that  I " 

"No!"  he  cried  vehemently.  "I'll  not  do  that  either.  I'll 
remember  it  all  the  days  of  my  life — and  so  will  you."  Then, 
in  a  softer  voice,  as  though  alarmed  at  his  own  passion:  "Susie, 
is  there  nothin'  I  can  do  to  make  you  love  me  ?  Is  there  nothin' 
—nothin'?" 

She  looked  up  now  with  a  little  shiver.  "  Only  leave  me  alone," 
she  begged.  "Only  that." 

He  swung  round  at  once.  "It's  a  thing  I  can  do,"  he  an- 
nounced over  his  shoulder. 


i8a  THE  ISSUE 

He  passed  Mrs.  Surridge  and  her  husband  on  the  threshold, 
nodded  grimly  and  left  the  house.  The  two  came  into  the 
kitchen. 

"Well,"  said  Tom,  with  a  gasp  of  dismay,  "if  that  ain't 
so'thin',  I  don't  know  what  is.  Never  a  word — same  as  if 
we  might  be  flies  in  his  tea — flick!  an'  he's  gone." 

He  stood  staring  at  Susie  in  unfeigned  amazement.  His 
wife  caught  the  look,  heard  his  remarks  and  turned  upon  him 
with  a  sharp  question: 

"What's  wrong  now?" 

Tom  was  about  to  reply,  but  he  detected  advice  written  in 
Mrs.  Surridge's  manner,  and  fell  into  a  new  key: 

"Why,  Zulu's  got  holt  of  number  four,  an'  she's  givin'  her 
hop-scotch,"  he  replied,  and  vanished  in  the  direction  of  the 
sties. 

That  night  Tom  found  himself,  by  chance,  alone  in  the 
kitchen  with  Susie.  His  wife  had  gone  out  with  a  neighbour. 
Coming  in,  he  had  discovered  the  girl  sitting  in  the  arm  chair 
staring  into  the  fire,  an  open  book  lying  unheeded  on  her  lap. 
Tom  approached  at  once: 

"You  didn't  mistake  me,  Susie?"  he  asked. 

"How,  Uncle?" 

"Why — in  that  signallin'  business — about  the  letters." 

"No,  why?"  the  question  leaped  eagerly  as  the  girl  sprang 
upright.  "Why — did  you  bring  any?" 

"No — don't  worry,  Susie."  He  spoke  quickly,  noting  her 
tell-tale  face.  "No.  There  weren't  any.  But  I  thought  you 
mistook  my  meanin',  you  looked  so  gay,  so  blithe,  you  know." 

«Gay— blithe?" 

Tom  glanced  about;  the  house  was  very  silent.  He  de- 
termined to  get  at  the  bottom  of  this  matter.  He  leaned  for- 


ZULU  SUPPLIES  A  PARALLEL  183 

ward  speaking  in  low  tones;  "Do  you  care  for  yon  chap, 
Susie?" 

"  Saunderson  ?  " 

"Aye." 

Susie  lifted  her  hands  as  though  she  weighed  the  question. 
"  Care  for  him  ?  I  am  afraid  of  him — nothing  else." 

"That's  cur'us,"  said  Tom.  "I  thought  you  liked  him 
amazin'." 

The  girl  answered  in  a  resigned  and  pathetic  tone:  "Is 
that  why  you  told  us  the  story  about  Zulu  and  Jacob  ?  Yes — 
yes,  I  understood.  Why  is  it  all  so  dreadfully  difficult  ?  Why 
am  I  left  to  struggle  with  him  alone.  I  hate  him.  Uncle, 
where  is  Jack — where  is  Jack?" 

She  propounded  the  sentence  so  suddenly;  in  such  quick, 
nervous  accents,  that  Tom  was  flustered.  He  forgot,  alto- 
gether, his  wife's  instructions.  "I  don't  know,"  he  said. 

"Tell  me— tell  me!  Will  he  write?  Will  he  write?"  Her 
voice  broke  with  the  sound  of  weeping,  and  Tom  hastened  to 
stay  it. 

"Of  course  he'll  write.  A  course  he  will.  Maybe  he's 
doin'  it  now.  If  't'were  me,  Susie,  he  would  be.  Law!  how 
could  he  help  it.  Why — he  couldn't — now,  could  he  ?  " 

Susie  swayed  to  and  fro,  moaning  dumbly,  searching  for  a 
loophole.  "He  promised  ...  he  promised.  It's  two 
months  .  .  .  two  whole  months  since  then — and " 

"Law!  a  course  it  is,"  Tom  repeated,  and  strayed  across  to 
put  his  hand  on  her  shoulder.  "You  see,"  he  explained,  "he's 
gone  to  Franch.  It's  a  long  way — so  I'm  told.  It  takes  a 
while  to  get  to  Franch;  weeks  it  takes — then " 

She  cried  out  suddenly  with  laughter  and  tears:  "No,  no! 
Oh!  indeed,  it  would  not  take  a  day." 

Tom  withdrew  his  hand.     He  was  more  astray  than  ever. 


184  THE  ISSUE 

"I  wouldn't  wonder,"  he  remarked  in  desperation,  "if  it  weren't 
Franch  after  all.  Maybe  it  was  China." 

Susie  fell  back  into  the  chair  and  relapsed  into  a  fit  of 
laughter  and  tears.  The  tears  blinded  her;  the  laughter 
choked  her,  or  she  would  have  seen  Tom's  face  of  utter  dis- 
may as  he  hastened  to  fetch  restoratives. 

He  knew  of  only  one.  He  had  seen  his  mother  use  it  years 
ago,  and  searched  for  the  materials. 

He  came  back  after  a  lapse  of  minutes,  armed  with  a  large 
sponge  filled  with  water.  The  screams  filled  the  kitchen; 
Susie  lay  with  her  head  bowed  low  on  the  arm  of  the  chair.  She 
could  not  have  been  better  placed.  Surridge  looked  upon  this 
simple  fact  as  the  direct  intervention  of  Providence,  and  cush- 
ioned the  sponge  carefully  in  the  curve  of  her  cheek  and  ear. 

The  girl  sprang  erect,  laughing  now  and  struggling  with  a 
desperation  that  alarmed  the  little  man.  The  laugh  went 
through  him;  filled  his  ears.  He  shrank  back  appalled,  and 
at  the  same  moment  the  door  opened  to  admit  his  wife.  She 
stood  a  moment  surveying  the  scene,  and  woman-like,  grasped 
its  meaning. 

'"Stericks,"  she  remarked.  "An'  Tom  playin'  the  fool. 
'A-done!  Susie!  An'  Tom,  you  drop  that  sponge." 

She  took  the  girl  in  her  arms  as  she  spoke;  glared  at  her 
husband,  who  instantly  beat  a  retreat,  and  the  trouble  was 
ended. 

Thereafter,  Tom  made  no  further  attempts  at  consolation. 
The  ways  of  women  were  quite  ridiculous.  He  was  awake  the 
best  part  of  the  night,  listening  to  instructions  from  his  wife. 

On  the  whole  he  considered  it  much  easier  to  rule  Zulu  and 
her  progeny. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  METHODS  or  THE  SCORCHER 

AGAIN  the  old  brig  Tantalus  lay  at  her  moorings  off 
Riverton,  waiting  turn  to  discharge  cargo  into  the 
Black  Diamond  hulk;  and  Sutcliffe  was  within  ken  of  his 
crowding  troubles. 

The  "Scorcher,"  a  name  which  the  executor  of  Dunscombe's 
affairs  had  already  earned,  had  been  on  the  prowl  all  day; 
peering  into  lockers,  store-rooms,  galley,  hold,  and  cabin — 
everywhere,  indeed,  where  a  man's  nose  may  sniff  or  his  eyes 
obtain  a  vision.  It  was  as  natural  for  him  to  suspect  a  lie  as 
it  is  for  most  Thames  skippers  to  tell  one.  He  came  from  an 
up-river  wharf,  where  he  had  been  manager,  with  the  reputation 
of  never  having  believed  the  truth  when  he  heard  it.  A  state- 
ment more  damaging  among  the  shrewd  casuists  he  ruled  than 
any  plain  expression  of  villainy. 

His  creed  was :  All  men  are  born  liars,  but  a  bargee  is  a  more 
gratuitous  species  of  liar  than  any  others  of  the  tribe."  In 
dealing  with  them,  and  the  riverside  fraternity,  he  made  a 
mental  reservation — "These  men  are  liars,"  and  he  treated 
them  consistently. 

Already  there  were  those  who  prophesied  trouble  with  the 
hands  as  a  result  of  the  new  management;  but  then,  there  are 
always  croakers  in  a  camp  where  one  digger  is  placed  in  author- 
ity over  brother  diggers.  As  a  digger  has  been  found  the 
hardest  taskmaster  for  kindred  diggers,  so  the  small  ship- 
owner, the  small  shopkeeper,  have  been  found  the  most  un- 

185 


1 86  THE  ISSUE 

relenting,  the  most  pettifogging  of  drivers  in  civilised  gold- 
seeking. 

It  was  whispered  that  the  "Scorcher,"  whose  real  name  was 
Michael  Jones,  came  from  "  Taffy-land,"  and  the  riverside 
wags  had  many  stories  of  his  early  boyhood.  These,  in  any 
other  community,  might  have  redounded  to  his  credit — 
but  not  here,  where  it  is  considered  derogatory  for  a  master 
to  have  had  his  beginnings  at  the  pitside,  where,  apparently, 
he  had  wandered  barefoot,  collecting  heaps  of  pickings  for 
barter. 

On  this  day  Sutcliffe's  life  was  a  burden  for  him.  His  voy- 
age had  not  been  a  success,  and  the  "Scorcher"  had  not  failed 
to  comment  on  the  fact.  The  old  man  had  hoped  to  get  home 
at  once  to  assure  himself  that  all  was  as  well  with  the  lil'  lass, 
as  her  letters  had  given  him  to  understand.  Also  it  is  a  skipper's 
prerogative  to  land  as  soon  as  his  ship  is  securely  moored. 
Sutcliffe  therefore  felt  distinctly  aggrieved  at  his  master's  lack 
of  consideration. 

It  was  eight  o'clock  when  at  length  he  arrived  at  the  pic- 
turesque cottage  near  the  woods,  and  discovered  Susie  awaiting 
his  arrival.  A  hand  went  out — the  old  signal — and  in  a  mo- 
ment the  girl  was  in  his  arms. 

"Eh!"  the  lil'  lass,"  he  cried.  "It's  good  to  see  you  blithe 
again.  Eh!  it's  good — thank  Gawd  for  it.  Why,  bless  my 
soul,"  he  continued,  holding  back  and  viewing  her  with  pride 
and  delight  gleaming  in  his  eyes;  if  it  were'n'  that  you're  a 
bit  thinner  an'  whiter,  I'd  say  you  are  the  same  as  ever  you 
were  down  at  the  old  home." 

Mrs.  Surridge  who  had  been  a  witness  to  the  meeting,  and 
now  stood  by  beaming  massively  upon  them,  broke  in  at  once : 
"Sakes!"  she  cried.  "She's  as  fit  as  fit:  gettin'  as  plump  as 
a  parterige  in  September — colour  all  right,  eyes  bright  as  you 


THE  METHODS  OF  THE  SCORCHER         187 

want;  don't  you  worry  about  that.  I  say  there'll  be  weddin* 
bells  ringin'  shortly — that's  the  least  I  expect,  brother." 

Tom  Surridge,  who  had  been  hovering  behind  his  wife's 
more  substantial  identity,  slunk  out  through  the  kitchen  at 
these  words.  He  was  a  tender-hearted  man,  and  knowing  what 
he  knew,  viewed  the  dubious  marriage  proposals  in  the  light 
of  sacrilege — only  he  called  it  by  a  different  name  as  he  went 
out  to  take  counsel  with  the  pigs. 

Susie  smiled  and  hastened  to  turn  the  conversation  into  a 
new  channel. 

"How  late  you  are,"  she  said.  "We  have  been  expecting 
you  all  day." 

"Since  dinner  time  we  have,"  Mrs.  Surridge  chimed,  as 
they  trooped  in  to  prepare  supper. 

A  gray  shadow  stole  over  the  old  man's  face.  The  recol- 
lection of  certain  difficulties  in  which  he  had  become  involved, 
smote  him,  and  he  fell  back  on  a  recitation  of  the  most  prom- 
inent. He  spoke  slowly  again;  in  the  ringing  tones  of  one 
who  recognises  that  he  is  hemmed  in,  beaten  on  all  issues,  and 
must  surrender. 

"I  couldn't  get  out  before,  lass.  It's  almost  a  wonder  I'm 
here  now,  as  the  sayin'  is.  There's  the  new  Guv'nor  aboard 
all  day — pokin'  his  nose  into  every  corner  of  the  ship:  worse 
than  Dunscombe,  he  is,  in  that  way — an'  as  for  takin'  you  at 
your  word,  why,  he  don't — an'  there's  an  end." 

Sutcliffe  sank  into  an  armchair  before  the  fire  and  spread  his 
hand  to  the  blaze;  he  watched  them  over  his  shoulder,  laying 
the  cloth. 

"We  were  onlucky  on  the  trip  home,  you  see.  Had  a 
accident.  It's  many  a  day  since  I  were  ashore  with  the  old 
brig;  but  I  got  caught,  fair  an'  square,  as  the  sayin'  is,  about 
half  ebb." 


i88  THE  ISSUE 

Susie  stayed  her  help  and  stood  watching  her  father  as  he 
remembered.  He  said,  still  in  the  slow,  thrashed  voice: 

"Last  voyage  when  we're  at  home,  I  says  to  the  Guv'nor, 
'Sir,  our  sails  are  gettin'  pretty  percurious;  we'll  be  wantin' 
a  new  fit  out  from  keel  to  truck  before  long.' 

"'Sho!'  says  he,  'why — what's  wrong  wiv  'em.  They  don't 
look  bad.' 

"'No,  sir,'  I  answer,  'but  it  ain't  always  the  things  as  look 
best,  that  are  best,  on  a  job  like  that.' 

"'They'll  have  to  stand,  Sutcliffe;  there's  no  two  ways 
about  that,'  says  he.  'Why,  look  at  last  voyage,'  he  says, 
'ten  days  from  Hull  to  the  Pool.  Lawd!  wheer  do  you 
think  the  money's  to  come  from  while  you  an'  your  crew 
are  eatin'  your  heads  off  at  sea?  Damn  it,  Sutcliffe,  you 
must  shake  a  bit  more  out  of  the  Tantalus — or,  she  won't  be 
wo'th  her  keep.' 

"  'Give  me  the  kites,  sir,'  says  I,  'an'  the  brig  will  show  some 
of  'em  the  road  yet.  But  who  can  do  anythin'  in  the  way  of  a 
passage,  wiv  the  likes  of  that  ?'  An'  I  walked  him  acrost  to  the 
main  hatch  wheer  Micky  Doolan's  at  work  on  the  leech  of 
our  stay-f ores'l ;  wheer  it's  double,  you  understand,  an'  I  took 
it  in  hand  an'  tore  it  across  as  easy  as  eatin'  peas  wiv  a  spoon — 
him  watchin'  me  all  the  time.  'If  that  ain't  proof,  sir,'  says 
I;  'Lumme!  if  I  know  what  is.' 

"'Chucks!'  says  he.  'Dry  rot— that's  what  that  is.  Why 
in  thunder  do  you  leave  your  sails  stowed  wet  ?  Hold  on !  don't 
tear  any  more — it's  got  to  stand.' 

"'Beggin'  to  differ,  sir,'  says  I,  'that's  not  sun  rot — it's  rot 
from  age.  Dunscombe  bought  these  sails  off  a  salvage  case — 
when  they  ought  to  have  been  condemned.' 

"An'  wiv  that,  Susie,  the  Scorcher  turns  on  his  heel  an'  will 
hardly  look  at  me  the  rest  of  the  day.  So  we  sailed  an'  got 


THE  METHODS  OF  THE  SCORCHER         189 

caught  in  a  breeze  comin'  down  the  Maplins;  lost  our  rags;* 
drove  ashore — an'  there  you  are,  as  the  sayin'  is." 

Susie  stood  white  and  trembling  before  her  father;  her  hand 
moving  irresolutely  about  his  neck.  He  put  out  his  arm  and 
drew  her  to  him  with  a  touch  of  the  old  buoyant  hope;  the  hope 
now  so  nearly  dead. 

"  Sho! "  he  whispered,  " how  nervous  you've  grown.  Why — 
bless  us,  there's  nothin'  in  that — there's  no  harm  done.  Why, 
the  Maplins  are  soft  as  a  baby's  lips;  wouldn't  hurt  a  soul, 
not  in  calm  weather,"  he  reserved,  "let  alone  a  ship."  His 
voice  fell  again,  he  mumbled  under  his  breath  gazing  intently 
at  the  fire:  "Maybe  the  old  brig's  a  bit  cleaner  about  the  gar- 
bage streaks,  an'  keel;  maybe  she's  a  trifle  hogged,f  but  she's 
none  the  worse  for  that.  They  all  get  hogged  wiv  time — like 
old  men  crooked  by  heavy  loads  long  borne — long  borne — a 
job  like  that." 

Susie  stood  fondling  the  gray  ringlets,  petting  the  creased 
brow,  smoothing  the  collar  of  his  coat;  but  she  made  no  effort 
to  speak.  Her  eyes  had  followed  his ;  she,  too,  stared  into  the  fire. 

Mrs.  Surridge  came  boisterously  into  the  gap,  flourishing 
her  potato  masher  like  a  club.  "Sakes  alive!"  she  cried, 
"don't  you  go  playin'  any  tricks,  brother — 'taint'  safe,  not  at 
your  age.  An'  as  for  that  Scorcher  chap,  I  wish  I  had  his 
dirty  face  under  this  masher  of  mine.  If  I  wouldn't  give  him 
ecollomy,  I  don't  know, "  she  concluded  with  a  vigorous  slam 
as  she  placed  the  saucepan  lid  on  the  stove.  But  Sutcliffe  was 
not  to  be  warned;  he  failed  to  notice  the  girl's  silence.  He  felt 
her  touch;  her  face  was  withheld. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said;  "maybe  the  Guv'nor  is  not  so  black 
as  he's  painted.  He's  got  some  heart — an'  that  is  more  than  you 
can  say  for  Dunscombe. " 

*  Sails,     f  Hog-backed,  i.  e.,  no  longer  straight  but  raised  in  the  middle. 


1 90  THE  ISSUE 

Mrs.  Surridge  produced  a  dish  wherein  to  turn  the  potatoes: 
"Heart?"  she  cried  indignantly,  "the  man  that  can  act  as 
you've  said,  hasn't  a  heart — it's  a  flip-jack,  fried  tough  as 
leather. " 

Sutcliffe  smiled.  "Sho!"  he  replied.  "I'm  rememberin' 
Dunscombe.  There's  no  one  that  can  be  a  patch  on  Duns- 
combe.  He  was  not  only  mean — he  was  cruel,  cowardly  cruel 
into  the  bargain. " 

"No,  Susie,"  he  resumed  as  they  drew  up  to  the  table  in 
response  to  Mrs.  Surridge's  invitation,  and  Tom  came  back 
from  his  visit  to  the  pigs,  "no — you  may  reckon  on  the  old  man 
bein'  kereful  not  to  run  onnecessary  risks,  for  the  sake  of  all. 
But  sooner  or  later  trouble  is  bound  to  come  out  of  this  business 
— an'  I  would  rather  you  were  prepared — on  a  job  like 
that." 

The  girl  found  voice  to  question  eagerly :  ' "  How,  Father  ?  " 
and  Sutcliffe  continued: 

"I'll  tell  you,  lass — but  it  has  to  do  wiv  natural  causes; 
causes  that  are  bound  to  come,  because  they  have  to  do  wiv  old 
age  alone. 

"I've  been  skipper  of  the  Tantalus  this  fifteen  year  or  more. 
Man  an'  boy  I've  known  her  thirty.  She  can't  be  for  many 
years  a  top  of  that ;  it's  not  in  reason,  because  she's  worn.  So, 
because  she's  old  and  don't  pay,  or  get  lost,  as  maybe  she  ought, 
it  don't  pay  to  do  much  in  the  way  of  repairs.  A  bit  longer — 
the  Lawd  alone  knows  when  on  a  job  like  that  an'  the  old  lady 
will  have  to  be  lost  or  sold  foreign ;  an'  I  will  have  coiled  down  the 
strings  for  the  last  time  about  her  taffrail  aft. 

"No,"  he  went  on  sadly,  "it  ain't  easy  to  look  forward  to 
a  thing  like  that;  but  it  will  come  .  .  .  an'  it  will  have  to 
be  faced.  It's  comin'.  I  know  that  from  a  word  the  Scorcher 
dropped  to-day.  I'm  askin'  for  a  new  mains'l  an'  fore-stays'l, 


THE  METHODS  OF  THE  SCORCHER         191 

in  place  of  them  we  blowed  away  in  the  breeze.  Says  he, 
'You'll  have  to  do  wiv  the  old  sails  out  of  the  Bluebell — we'll 
patch  'em  up  for  you,  an'  next  time  you  have  the  chance,  Sut- 

cliffe,  why '     He  stops  an'  looks  at  me  out  of  his  small  eyes. 

'What?'  says  I,  'down  the  cellar  wiv  her?'  'No  fool!'  he  says. 
'Make  a  clean  sweep  of  it — then  we  can  come  on  the  club  for  a 
refit,  an'  sell  her  afterward.'  " 

Mrs.  Surridge  strove  to  turn  the  conversation;  she  laughed 
boisterously  at  nothing  in  particular,  made  an  observation 
which  verged  on  idiocy;  but  Sutcliffe  could  not  see;  he  con- 
tinued in  his  grave,  worn  tones: 

"You  see,  it's  like  this — when  a  ship  has  been  runnin'  thirty 
years  or  more,  an'  has  paid  as  the  old  brig  must  a  paid  in  times 
gone  by,  she  don't  stand  at  anythin'  on  her  owner's  books. 
She  has  wiped  out  her  cost  a  long  while.  But  now  steam's  come 
in  she  don't  pay,  freights  are  cut,  she's  slow  an'  it  don't  pay  to 
reclass  her.  So  they  just  keep  her  joggin',  or  moor  her  in  the 
thick  of  the  traffic,  or  wait  till  the  Gov'ment  drops  alongside  an' 
condemn  her.  Then  they  must  make  a  move ;  so  they  sell  her 
to  the  Dutchmen — hoist  a  dirty  flag  across  her  starn  in  place 
of  a  clean  one — stick  in  a  crew  of  Dutch  chysers  an'  run  her 
in  her  old  trade.  There's  no  alteration  made,  nothin'  done 
to  her;  but  now  she  can  run  on  as  before  and  wait  for  the  end — 
wiv  a  crew  of  Dutchmen  instead  of  her  own.  Nothin'  else — 
nothin' — a  job  like  that. " 

Susie  steadied  her  eyes  and  looked  across  at  her  father: 
"Better  to  be  sold  than  that  she  should  be  a  death  trap — to 
you.  The  risk  is  so  dreadful — and  yet  I  shall  be  sorry — yes, 
I  shall  be  sorry. " 

"Not  more  than  I  will,  Susie.  Eh!  not  more  than  I  will. 
It's  a  weary  while  since  I  had  what  you  might  call  happiness 
on  board  of  her;  but  it  will  be  like  cuttin'  the  old  man's  arm 


j9a  THE  ISSUE 

off,  or  his  leg — when  she  goes.    Aye,  I'd  as  lief  she  went  down 
the  cellar,  as  the  sayin'  is;  it  would  be  easier." 

Mrs.  Surridge  assumed  a  gaiety  she  did  not  feel  and  sprang 
into  the  conversation  with  an  assertion  of  her  belief.  "She's 
not  goin'  down  the  cellar,  brother.  An'  as  for  callin'  yourself 
old — why,  it's  suttinly  nothin'  more  or  less  than  a  libel. 
ShockinM  shockinM  an'  me  sittin'  beside  you  only  two  year 
behind.  Have  another  cut  of  the  hand,  George — or  do  you 
like  the  knuckil  best?" 

"Take  another  glawss  o'  ale,  George,"  said  Tom,  as  he 
pushed  the  jug  across  the  table.  "You're  a  bit  down  on  your 
luck,  mate — that's  what  you  are. " 

"Six  hours  bumpin'  on  the  sands  ain't  goin'  to  make  a  man 
feel  ezactly  as  bright  as  it'll  make  the  old  brig's  copper," 
Sutcliffe  returned.  "Eh!  sister — I'm  not  what  I  was.  Fifty- 
five  years  is  what  I  am;  forty-five  of  'em  spent  trapsin'  up  an' 
down  the  old  river  for  somebody  else's  benefit.  Forty-five  years, 
Susie — gatherin'  what?  How  do  I  stand?  A'most  broke — 
a'most  broke."  His  eyes  took  a  far  away  look  as  he  spoke. 
The  sad  gray-blue  eyes  that  saw  no  one  present;  marked 
nothing  of  the  danger  with  which  his  words  were  charged; 
looked  only  into  the  past  as  he  toyed  with  his  glass. 

"Fifty  years  on  the  old  river  brings  a  man  alongside  the 
passon  for  the  second  time — on  some  other  body's  shoulder. 
Fifty  years  of  river  life  is  three-score  an'  ten  ashore  .  .  . 
an'  what  has  the  old  man  gathered,  as  the  sayin'  is,  durin' 
that  spell  ? 

"Nowt,  Susie.  Nowt  beyond  maybe  a  debt  or  so.  Debts 
are  heavy  to  wipe  off  when  a  man  has  got  over  his  prime.  I'm 
over  my  prime — long  over;  an'  I've  been  hit — still,  there's 
been  other  things  more  worth  thinkin'  of,  on  a  job  like  that. 
There  was  Lucy — Gawd  rest  her  bright  soul — an'  the  1U'  lass. 


THE  METHODS  OF  THE  SCORCHER         193 

Aye,  the  HI'  lass  came  to  take  the  place  of  her  that  left  me. 
But  Susie  an'  Gawd  alone  know  the  mis'ry  of  my  life  since  she 
was  took.  Eh !  if  we  could  only  look  ahead  as  we  can  look  back. 
If  when  Gawd  has  some  new  move  on  the  board  for  us,  he'd 
give  us  a  sight  of  what  lies  ahead — what  a  crowd  of  poor  devils 
would  never  take  that  move,  never — never. 

"Sho!  what  are  we  talkin'  of?  Dreamin',  Susie,  that's 
what  I  call  it — dreamin'  an'  playin'  the  fool. " 

Supper  was  over.  They  all  rose,  and  Susie  moved  across  to 
Sutcliffe's  side.  She  put  her  arms  about  his  neck  and  kneeling 
beside  him,  kissed  him  on  the  forehead. 

"Don't  trouble  dear,"  she  begged.  "Don't  worry  about 
the  future.  You  couldn't  help  things — going  as  they  have. 
No  one  could.  And  as  for  the  debts, " — she  rallied  her  forces, 
speaking  brightly,  "why  we  will  work  hard  and  pay  them  off. 
You  and  I.  Oh!  you  little  know  what  I  can  do,  or  how  strong 
and  clever  I — I " 

She  broke  off  abruptly,  stammered,  and  fell  into  silence.  For 
a  moment  it  seemed  as  though  the  cord  of  her  memory  had 
snapped — then,  laughing  a  little  hysterically,  she  fled  to  her 
room. 


CHAPTER  X 
IN  LTMTNE 

NIGHT  had  fallen  on  the  quiet  village  nestling  so  sleepily 
in  the  hollow  of  the  Kentish  hills,  a  soft,  still  night, 
with  a  young  moon  creeping  through  the  skeleton  trees  across 
the  way. 

The  tired  world  was  already  adrowse.  Scarcely  a  sound  came 
from  the  tiny  hamlet  straggling  up  the  road  where  the  two 
men  had  gone  soon  after  supper.  Susie  was  in  bed,  but  sleep 
would  not  come. 

Something  not  to  be  accounted  for  had  happened  to  the 
beams  and  ceiling  overhead,  or  was  it  the  cracks  or  those  minute 
pinholes  or  the  stained  blotches  moving  in  that  wilderness  of 
white  plaster?  She  could  not  understand  it.  It  puzzled  her 
extremely.  She  felt  the  necessity  for  a  closer  examination 
and  crept  from  her  bed  to  carry  out  the  desire;  then,  straight- 
way loosing  the  thread,  discovered  that  she  moved  to  her  aunt's 
room. 

Mrs.  Surridge  was  preparing  for  rest  and  had  not  heard 
the  door  open.  She  started  and  came  forward  at  the  sight  of  a 
blanched  face  and  white-robed  figure,  standing  framed  by  the 
darkness  of  the  passage. 

"La,  Susie!"  she  cried,  "how  you  do  startle  a  body.  Sakes 
alive!  what's  the  matter  now?" 

The  girl  came  in,  closed  the  door,  and  stood  leaning  against 
the  foot  of  the  bed.  She  spoke  slowly,  reiterating  her  sentences 
in  a  fashion  that  was  quite  novel. 

194 


IN  LIMINE 


195 


"I  want  to  talk  to  you,  Auntie.  I  want  to  talk  to  you.  I 
can't  sleep  until  I  have  talked  to  you. " 

Mrs.  Surridge  moved  forward  and  took  her  hand  drawing 
her  across  the  room.  "You'll  catch  your  death,  niece — an' 
what  else  could  one  expect,  with  you  standin'  there  with  hardly 
a  cover  for  your  pretty  shoulders.  La,  Susie!  don'  be  a  ninny," 
she  hurried  on,  as  the  girl  flushed  crimson;  "they  are  pretty — 
pretty  as  picters,  an'  white  an'  warm  with  sweet  flesh  an' 
blood — which  is  more  than  you  can  say  about  picters  an'  such." 

She  wrapped  the  soft  girlish  figure  in  a  shawl,  then  with  a 
quick,  impulsive  gesture,  bent  down  and  kissed  her  neck. 

"Sakes  alive!  how  you  do  burn.  Your  neck's  afire,  child — 
your  neck's  afire." 

"Don't,  please  don't,"  Susie  begged,  struggling  in  her 
strong  grasp. 

"It's  good  for  gells  to  know  they're  beautiful,  'specially  when 
they're  near  to  marriage,"  her  aunt  insisted.  "It'll  come, 
Susie.  La!  it's  bound  to  come.  Sho!  deary,  don't  take  on — 
it's  only  your  aunt  fondlin'  you  because  she  loves  you  an'  has 
no  chick  of  her  own  to  see  settled." 

"  You  are  very  kind.  Indeed  I  am  grateful,"  Susie  returned, 
clinging  to  her  impulsively,  "but  I  want  to  ask  you  something." 

Mrs.  Surridge  pushed  her  to  a  seat  on  the  bed.  "Aye, 
dear}' — an'  what's  that?" 

"  Father  was  saying,  when  I  came  through  the  kitchen  a 
while  ago,  something  about  a  debt — or  some  debts  that  he  had. 
He  was  talking  to  Uncle,  and  when  I  passed  he  stopped.  At 
supper,  too,  he  spoke  of  the  difficulty  of  paying  debts  when  men 
grow  old.  He  seemed  much  put  out — much  put  out.  What 
is  it  all  about  ?  Can  you  tell  me  ?  " 

Mrs.  Surridge  at  once  grew  grave.  She  faced  the  girl  with 
a  warning  note  in  her  voice.  "It's  as  well  you  asked  me, 


196  THE  ISSUE 

Susie — for  all  the  horses  on  the  farm  wouldn't  drag  it  out  of 
George — it's  foolishness,  that's  what  I  call  it." 
"What  is?  and  why  is  it  foolishness?" 
"Because,  Susie,  it's  a  debt  that  you  could  wipe  out." 
The  girl  faced  her  with  sudden  energy.     "That  I  could  wipe 
out?"  she  questioned.     "I — I  have  no  money." 
"You  have  what  is  worth  much  more." 
"What  do  you  mean?" 

"What  I  say — yourself,  child,  your  own  pretty  self." 
"Who   would  take  me  in  payment?"  Susie  demanded  with 
bitter  sarcasm. 

"Jim  Saunderson  would,  an'  thankful." 
"Oh  don't!    don't!   don't!" 

The  girl's  cry  was  so  heart-breaking  that  for  a  moment  even 
the  match-making  instinct  of  this  quaint  bundle  of  interference 
quailed  before  it.  But  Mrs.  Surridge  had  decided  that  it  was 
necessary  Susie  should  marry.  She  had  decided  that  it  wTould 
be  unwise  to  allow  her  to  wait  longer  for  Elliott.  She  went 
farther  and  announced  to  Tom  that  such  a  proceeding  would 
be  followed  by  "the  Lord  knows  what  all,"  and  Tom,  duly  im- 
pressed and  only  vaguely  guessing  at  her  meaning,  agreed. 
Mrs.  Surridge  continued  therefore  to  urge  her  plan. 

"If  it  were  possible,"  she  remarked,  "to  sit  still  an'  see  you 
frettin'  your  soul  to  fritters,  I'd  say  no  more.  But  it  ain't. 
Besides,  I  holt  that  one  man's  as  good  as  another  in  this  case. 
You  don't  know  how  you'll  come  to  love  him — an'  then  there's 
father  to  remember,  deary.  That's  what  I  look  at." 

Susie  sat  rocking  slowly  to  and  fro,  her  cheeks  aflame.    "  Does 
Father  owe  this  money  to  Jim  Saunderson?"  she  threw  out. 
"He  has  for  a  long  while,  an'  now  he  asks  for  it." 
"And  does  he  know  of  this — this  proposal?" 
"La!"  cried  Mrs.  Surridge  breaking  in  with  ready  apology. 


IN  LIMINE  197 

"A  course  he  does — only  we  don't  put  it  like  that.  Why, 
everybody  knows  of  the  debt  an'  the  payment  that's  asked — 
same  as  if  it  had  been  in  the  papers." 

"He  has  never  said  anything  to  me,"  Susie  faltered  fearlessly. 

"That's  why  I  tell  you,  deary.  Bless  the  gell,  you  know 
father  would  be  sold  up  before  he'd  say  a  word.  That's  what 
is  troubling  him — you  know  that,  surely." 

For  some  minutes  there  was  a  dead  silence  in  the  little  room. 
Susie  cowered  against  the  bed-rail,  her  breast  heaving  convul- 
sively. Her  breath  came  in  quick,  uncertain  gasps;  her  fingers 
twined  and  intertwined.  A  strange  look  crept  into  her  eyes. 
She  faced  her  aunt,  speaking  swiftly:  "Have  you  heard  any- 
thing of  Jack?" 

"There's  rumours,  Susie,"  Mrs.  Surridge  admitted,  caught 
napping  by  the  question. 

" Rumours  of  what ?    Speak!    Tell  me — or  I  shall  go  mad." 

Mrs.  Surridge  hedged.  "There's  no  sayin'  for  certain. 
Sakes  it's " 

"Is  he  safe?" 

"I  don't  know.    No  one  knows." 

"Is  he  dead?" 

The  girl's  voice  rang  with  terrible  earnestness.  She  started 
to  her  feet  and  seizing  her  aunt  by  the  shoulders,  gazed  into 
her  face  with  quivering  lips;  an  awful  terror  dancing  in  her 
eyes.  Mrs.  Surridge  tried  to  avoid  the  question.  Her  wits 
were  a  chaos  under  the  catechism.  But  Susie  held  her  trans- 
fixed as  she  reiterated  the  sentence:  "Is  he  dead?" 

"Don't  look  like  that.  Susie!  it  cuts  me  like  a  knife.  Aye, 
aye — maybe  it's  that.  It  is  God's  will  deary — that " 

She  stopped  speaking.  Susie  had  fallen  back  on  the  bed  as 
she  caught  the  full  meaning  of  the  broken  sentences.  She  sat 
rocking  to  and  fro  with  quick,  nervous  movement.  "He  is 


198  THE  ISSUE 

dead!"  she  cried  out,  "dead — dead!  God  has  taken  him  from 
me  He  had  no  right.  He  was  mine — he  was  mine." 

"Child!  Child!  Susie,  my  deary!"  her  aunt  protested 
aghast. 

"Dead!  dead!  He  should  have  lived — and  I  have  blamed 
him.  Oh!  he  was  mine — he  was  mine.  Why  have  you  taken 
my  husband  away?  My  husband — do  you  understand? 
Dead!  dead!  Oh  God!  why? " 

"Susie!    Have    patience — have    patience." 

"Patience!"  she  broke  out,  swaying,  hot  with  passion  and 
excitement.  "You  don't  understand.  He  was  my  lover. 
Long  ago  we  were  to  have  been  married;  long  ago  it  was  all 
arranged.  Jack!"  the  girl's  voice  took  a  tender  inflection  at 
the  mention  of  his  name,  "I  loved  you,  dear — I  loved  you 
always.  We  grew  up  together.  We  were  lovers  always — al- 
ways. They  let  me  think  you  had  forgotten,  and  now  they  say 
you  are  dead — and  that  God  has  taken  you  because  it  was  better 

"Susie,  I  never  said  it — you  know  me  better."  Mrs.  Sur- 
ridge  vainly  attempted  to  .stay  the  storm  she  had  raised.  She 
leaned  forward  trying  to  catch  the  girl  in  her  arms,  but  Susie 
sprang  back. 

"No,  you  don't  say  it,  but  others  do,  and  you  half  mean  it. 
God !  I  am  tired  of  hearing  of  what  God  has  done.  It  is  always 
God — God,  every  time  anything  happens  that  hurts  us.  Mother 
quavered  of  God  till  my  heart  was  sick.  If  a  neighbour  was 
drowned,  it  was  God's  will;  not  the  fault  of  a  crazy  ship.  If 
a  girl  went  wrong,  it  was  God's  will;  not  her  own.  If  the  fac- 
tory smoke  stifled  us,  it  was  God's  will,  not  the  direction  of  the 
wind.  Oh!  I  am  sick  to  death  of  the  nonsense.  I  am  sick 
to  death  of  it  all." 

Mrs.    Surridge  listened,   still   protesting   her    amazement: 


IN  LIMINE  199 

"Child!  I  am  sorry  to  hear  you  say  so;  indeed,  T  would  not 
have  believed  it  possible  from  what  I've  seen  of  you.  Sit  still, 
deary — don't  take  on.  It's  weary  work,  I  know — but  you'll 
take  comfort,  in  time  you  will." 

Silence  fell  in  the  little  room.  Susie  remained  with  her  face 
buried  in  her  hands;  swaying,  terribly  in  earnest.  Suddenly 
she  lifted  her  head  and  a  question  leaped  from  her  lips: 

"How  do  you  know  that  what  you  say  is  true?" 

"Because  his  boat  was  found." 

"Where?" 

"Cast  up  on  the  mud,  top  of  Sea  Beach.  It  was  the  Garter 
Pier  boat  that  he'd  borrowed." 

"How  do  you  know?  Did  anyone  see  him?"  Susie  cried 
instantly. 

"His  coat  was  found — tied  up  in  a  bundle  an'  jammed  under 
the  seat.  There  was  a  letter  in  the  pocket." 

"Give  it  to  me!  Give  it  to  me!  It  is  mine — it  must  be 
mine,"  she  wailed  in  agony. 

"It  was  yours,  Susie.  You  sent  it  to  him.  Steady,  Susie — 
there's  no  sort  of  comfort  to  be  got  from  that."  She  searched 
in  her  pocket  and  handed  the  note  which  she  had  obtained  from 
her  brother  before  he  went  out,  and  in  pursuance  of  her  plan 
of  intervention.  It  was  a  little,  crumpled,  water-stained  note 
the  girl  had  written  only  a  few  days  before  Jack's  last  visit. 
She  seized  it  eagerly;  spreading  it  out  with  fingers  that  shook. 

"Dear  Jack,  please,  please  come  out  to  see  me "  The 

words  struck  her.  She  moved  to  and  fro,  moaning,  dumb 
with  pain.  Then  checking  her  grief,  caught  at  her  aunt's  arm 
and  whispered  in  hot  expectation:  "How  do  you  know — 
How  do  you  know  he  is " 

In  Mrs.  Surridge's  mind  only  one  fact  loomed  of  any  im- 
portance. The  girl  must  not  be  allowed  to  wait  for  Elliott. 


200  THE  ISSUE 

She  replied  in  even  tones,  the  tones  of  one  who  did  not  at  all 
recognise  the  nature  of  what  was  said:  "Father  tells  me  his 
boat  was  cut  pretty  nigh  in  half,  Susie.  He  can't " 

"  Cut  in  half.    What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"There's  been  an  accident,  child.  He's  towin'  down  river 
an'  suthin'  happened.  The  steamer  has  come  astern,  an'  it's 
all  over. " 

The  brusque  recital  of  so  grim  a  tragedy,  given  almost  in 
Sutcliffe's  own  words,  forced  a  picture  of  the  circumstances 
into  the  girl's  quicker  brain.  She  had  heard  of  these  things; 
knew  much  of  the  swift  and  noiseless  deaths  of  the  river  men; 
had  seen  the  groups  standing  over  stranded  remains,  whispering 
details  of  the  end.  The  picture  burned  before  her,  and  she 
clasped  her  hands  over  her  eyes,  striving  to  shut  it  out.  She 
remained  so  still,  so  stricken  with  the  pain  of  living  that  her  aunt 
grew  alarmed.  She  marvelled  at  what  she  could  not  compre- 
hend; approached  and  began  to  speak.  But  Susie  started 
backward,  her  voice  ringing  with  terror. 

"Don't  touch  me!  Don't  touch  me!  Let  me  think.  Hor- 
rible .  .  .  horrible!" 

She  sprang  to  her  feet  and  faced  her  aunt.  "How  long 
have  you  known  this?"  she  demanded. 

"  Maybe  a  month.     Don't  fret — don't  fret — there's  a  deary. " 

"A  month!" 

The  exclamation  fell  like  a  bolt  from  heaven  on  plain,  matter- 
of-fact  Mrs.  Surridge.  She  gasped  with  apprehension.  Susie's 
voice  sounded  again:  "Why  was  I  not  told?" 

"We  dared  not  tell  you, "  she  whimpered. 

"And  so  you  let  me  think  he  had  forgotten.  Kind  .  .  . 
kind." 

"We  were  afraid  it  would  kill  you,  child — we  were  afraid," 
Mrs.  Surridge  moaned. 


IN  LIMINE  201 

"Better  so,"  she  returned  with  hot,  dry  eyes.  "Better  so. 
Why  should  I  live  if  Jack  is  dead?  What  use  am  I  alone? 
Always  we  were  one — always  we  were  together.  Oh!  my 
dear,  why  did  you  not  have  mercy  on  me  and  tell  me  you  were 
dead.  I  would  have  come — I  would  have  come. " 

She  fell  back  among  the  pillows  moaning  pitifully.  Mrs. 
Surridge  cried,  too,  and  strove  to  assure  herself  that  she  had 
acted  for  the  best.  She  touched  Susie's  lips,  attempting  to 
soothe  her  with  caresses. 

"There's  others  beside  Jack  that  love  you,"  she  whispered. 

The  girl  started  as  though  she  had  been  struck.  Her  eyes 
flashed  anger.  "Jim  Saunderson!"  she  cried. 

Mrs.  Surridge  quailed.  "Not  alone,"  she  gasped,  "there's 
us:  father,  uncle,  an'  me — what  would  we  do,  deary?" 

' '  You  are  laughing  at  me.  Everyone  is  laughing  at  me.  Oh ! 
you  are  cruel!  cruel!" 

Suddenly  she  leaped  from  the  bed  and  stood  tugging  at  the 
buttons  of  her  nightdress.  In  a  moment  the  flimsy  fastenings 
were  torn  asunder  and  the  dress  flung  to  the  ground. 

"I  can't  breathe,  I  shall  suffocate!"  she  cried  with  a  curious 
laugh.  "What  does  it  matter  to  you  whether  I  live  or  die? 
It  doesn't  matter — nothing  matters. " 

"Susie!  Susie!"  Mrs.  Surridge  was  aghast  at  the  sight. 
She  strove  to  speak  but  words  failed  her;  she  could  only  reiterate, 
"You  know  we  all  love  you. " 

The  girl  faced  her  with  impetuous  scorn.  "  Oh,  yes  .  .  . 
I  forgot.  You  all  love  me — and  so,  I  am  to  be  sold.  Do  you 
think  that  sounds  consistent  ?  I  am  to  be  sold  ?  " 

She  leaned  forward  clasping  her  head  with  trembling  hands, 
her  hair  streaming  like  a  flood  of  gold  about  her  shoulders, 
her  breast  heaving,  her  white  skin  aglow  in  the  lamplight.  Her 
eyes,  flashing  over  crimson  cheeks,  looked  out  through  a  frame 


202  THE  ISSUE 

of  glorious  hair.  "They  are  pretty  shoulders, aren't  they?" 
she  laughed,  suddenly  sarcastic.  "A  pretty  breast,  too.  And 
all  to  be  sold — all  to  be  sold.  You  said  so,  mind!  Of  course 
I'm  pretty.  Do  you  think  if  I  weren't  pretty  anyone  would 
bother  about  me?  Come,  tell  me  how  much  is  this  debt. 
Tell  me  so  that  I  may  have  some  idea  of  my  value. " 

Mrs.  Surridge  could  only  gasp:  "Oh,  Lawd!  the  gell's  mad. 
What  can  I  do  ?  What  can  I  do  ?  " 

"You  won't  tell  me,"  the  voice  went  on,  scathingly:  "of 
course  not.  Is  it  likely?  You,  who  tell  me  everything  ?  Then 
I  must  guess.  What  is  it  now  ?  twenty  pounds  ?  thirty  ? 
forty  ?  fifty  ?  You  won't  say.  I  might  have  known  it.  Well, 
but  there  couldn't  be  a  bigger  debt  than  that.  Fifty  pounds! 
Why,  that's  not  much  for  a  beautiful  girl — is  it?  A  gentle 
girl,  too — and  loving.  Trust  me,  I  would  never  grow  old 
or  querulous  or  practise  nagging."  Then  again  in  the  old 
key:  "Auntie,  I  am  beautiful,  am  I  not  ?  It  isn't  all  a  mistake, 
is  it?  Tell  me,  tell  me." 

The  words  poured  out  in  a  hot  and  babbling  stream.  The 
girl  stood  erect,  blazing  with  scorn,  indignation,  contempt; 
without  a  vestige  of  self-consciousness,  intent  on  her  demand 
to  be  told. 

"You're  a  little  fool!"  Mrs.  Surridge  snorted  as  she  hastened 
toward  her  with  a  wrap.  "Have  done  with  your  nonsense. " 

Susie's  mood  changed  instantly.  She  came  over,  meekly 
awaited  her  aunt's  assistance,  drew  the  proffered  cloak  about 
her,  and  huddled  down  into  a  corner  of  the  bed. 

"Now  you  are  cross,"  she  pleaded.  "Don't  be  cross — it 
is  no  use.  Oh!  I  wish  I  could  cry — I  used  to  be  able  to  cry. 
My  head  is  splitting;  my  eyes  are  burning — why  have  you  set  me 
on  fire?" 

She  leaned  forward  and  her  aunt  took  her  head  on  her  broad 


IN  LIMINE  203 

bosom,  soothing  her  as  she  would  a  child.  "La! "  she  crooned, 
glancing  anxiously  at  the  clock.  "La,  there — there — rest 
quiet,  poor  dear,  rest  quiet — there's  a  lamb.  I  wish,"  she 
continued,  sotto  voce,  as  she  strained  her  ears  to  catch  the 
sound  of  approaching  footsteps:  "I  wish  them  guzzlers  no 
harm,  but  the  Lawd  look  sideways  on  'em  if  they  ain't  in 
sharp."  She  drew  the  cloak  about  the  girl's  shoulders,  but- 
toning it  as  she  spoke.  Susie  sat  beside  her  gazing  into  vacancy, 
silent,  despondent ;  then,  turning  with  a  quick  movement,  she 
pointed  across  the  room. 

"  I  see  him,  Auntie.  You  are  quite  wrong.  Jack  is  not  dead. " 

The  name  fell  with  so  much  decision  that,  almost  involun- 
tarily, Mrs.  Surridge  followed  the  girl's  glance  with  a  question. 

"Where,  Susie?" 

"There,  pulling — pulling  in  that  small  boat.  Look!  how 
tiny  it  is.  Can  he  be  safe — can  he  be  safe  ?  " 

"A  course  he  can.    He's  a  sailor  an'  knows  how  to  manage." 

"But  the  sea  is  wide — so  wide  and  so  lonely.  If  any 
wind  comes — that  little  boat  is  no  use. " 

"Let's  hope  it'll  stay  cawlm,"  Mrs  Surridge  returned.  A 
conviction  that  the  girl  was  mad  had  penetrated  slowly  to  her 
brain.  She  argued  that  she  must  humour  her,  eke  out  the 
time  until  her  husband  returned  and  do  all  in  her  power  to  pre- 
vent excitement.  The  girl's  reply  fell  on  her  ears. 

"Because,"  she  was  saying,  "if  anything  happened  to  Jack, 
it  would  all  go  wrong — because,  you  see,  I  am  his  wife. " 

"  Susie,  don't  you  fret, "  came  the  reply,  "no thin' can  hap- 
pen to  men — they  are  born  percurious — so  it  can't. " 

"That  isn't  true.  You  know  that  isn't  true.  You  said  your- 
self that  Jack  was  dead. " 

Mrs.  Surridge  retreated.  "Perhaps  I  made  a  blunder,"  she 
suggested. 


204  THE  ISSUE 

"Now  you  are  telling  lies.  But  it  does  not  matter.  I  can 
see  now.  Oh!  I  can  see  quite  plainly.  S-h-h-h!  the  wind  is 
rising.  Listen!  Oh,  Jack!  Jack!"  She  broke  off  abruptly, 
and  stood  pointing  into  the  darkness. 

"  Sit  quiet,  Susie,  sit  quiet — there's  a  dear, "  cried  Mrs.  Sur- 
ridge  in  an  access  of  fear. 

"Look  at  the  long  wave  rolling  toward  him.  Oh!  it  is 
awful!  He  will  be  swamped.  Jack — Jack!  Auntie,  can't 
you  see?" 

"  A    course  I  can  see,"  she  replied,  simulating  discovery. 

"Of  course  you  can — if  only  you  know  where  to  look.  Any 
one  could  but  first  they  must  have  been  through  the  fires. 
See — how  misty  it  has  grown — and  how  the  spray  drives  down 
the  wind."  She  held  up  one  hand  as  though  searching  for 
signs  of  a  breeze.  "Look!"  she  cried,  "it  is  quite  damp — 
and  now  I  can't  see  him.  Where  is  he?  Jack!  Jack!" 

The  cry  came  from  the  girl's  heart  as  she  stretched  out  her 
arms  calling  for  her  lover.  Mrs.  Surridge  gripped  her  tightly 
round  the  waist.  "Stay  quiet!"  she  cried.  "Maybe  he'll 
come  again. " 

Instantly  the  girl  sat  still.  A  solemn  hush  fell  upon  the 
room  and  for  a  space  the  harsh  voice  of  the  small  American 
clock  was  the  only  note  of  unrest  in  all  the  lonely  house.  Susie 
reclined  in  her  aunt's  arms.  For  a  moment  she  appeared  to 
sleep;  then,  again  alert  and  eager,  she  sprang  upright. 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  how  I  know  he  is  not  dead  ?  "  she  questioned. 

Mrs.  Surridge  groaned.  "La!  yes — anything  for  a  quiet 
life.  Talk — maybe,  it  will  give  you  repose. " 

"It  all  happened  so  long  ago  ...  it  is  difficult  to 
remember.  It  was  before  we  were  married,  and  Jack  and  I 
had  been  down  river.  Then  of  course  we  had  to  come  back 
.  .  .  but  the  moon  was  up  and  Jack  was  tired  of  rowing. 


IN  LIMINE  205 

So  he  took  me  in  his  arms  and  we  drifted,  just  as  we  have 
drifted  ever  since  .  .  .  and  all  the  time  we  came  nearer  a 
great  swirl  in  the  current  a  long  way  out  at  sea. 

"Jack  said  it  was  the  Gat  .  .  .  and  that  people  die  when 
they  come  there.  But  if  they  loved  each  other  and  were 
married  they  went  past  quite  safely — but  if  they  loved  each  other 
and  there  had  been  no  time  for  a  wedding  .  .  .  then  they 
would  be  sucked  down  in  the  water.  I  didn't  think  that  fair; 
do  you  ?  Because  if  there  had  not  been  time,  you  know  it  could 
not  have  been  their  fault.  But  of  course  we  got  by  quite  easily, 
for  I  had  gone  to  sleep  .  .  .  and  .  .  .  and  my 
husband  was  with  me. " 

"Your  husband,  child!"  Mrs.  Surridge  started  at  the  words; 
but  Susie  continued  with  the  calm  insistence  of  one  telling  a 
history  which  was  common  to  the  world. 

"Yes;  didn't  you  know  that  we  are  married?" 

Mrs.  Surridge  sighed  as  the  girl  sprang  again  to  a  sitting 
posture.  "I  could  not  forget  such  a  thing,  Auntie." 

"  No — women  mostly  remember  marriage,  one  way  or  another, 
all  the  days  of  their  lives." 

Susie  settled  back  in  comfort  and  resumed  with  quick,  ner- 
vous repetition.  "No,  no;  I  shall  never  forget.  It  was  all  so 
sweet  .  .  .  only  the  time  was  short — very  short.  They 
had  turned  me  out;  there  was  no  where  to  go — besides  the  man 
was  chasing  me.  Where  could  I  go  ?  Only  to  Jack — only  to 
Jack. 

"It  was  a  good  thing  he  was  there,"  she  continued  after  a 
slight  pause,  during  which  she  had  listened  intently.  "If 
he  had  not  been  there  I  don't  know  what  I  should  have  done. 
Gone  mad  or  gone  bad — mad — bad:  which  is  it?  Oh!  how 
these  things  puzzle  me  .  .  .  and  my  head  is  splitting.  I 
can't  think  properly.  Tell  me — where  ought  a  girl  to  go 


206  THE  ISSUE 

when  she  is  turned  out  and  there  has'nt  been  time  for  a  proper 
wedding  ?  Ought  she  to  go  to  him  ?  He  is  her  husband,  you 
know.  God  made  him  her  husband — as  He  makes  everything. 
No,  that  isn't  right — He  only  allows  it.  Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha,"  she 
broke  into  laughter,  her  voice  thrilling  weirdly.  Then,  sud- 
denly, without  a  moment's  pause,  she  started  from  her  aunt's 
arms  and  ran  to  the  window.  Someone  was  approaching  the 
cottage.  She  drummed  on  the  glass,  crying  out:  "Yes,  dear, 
I  knew  you  would  come.  I  have  been  waiting  so  long  .  .  . 
so  long.  Oh,  Jack!  my  darling,  don't  stay  away!  Have 
mercy!  Have  mercy!" 

Mrs.  Surridge  regained  her  side,  and  caught  her  round  the 
waist.  " Steady,  Susie, "  she  cried.  "It  isn't  Jack — it's  father 
an'  uncle.  Will  you  have  'em  in  to  shame  you  ?" 

"I  tell  you  it  is  Jack.  He  has  been  away  so  long  that  I 
nearly  died.  Let  me  see  him!  Let  me  see  him!  Jack!  they 
are  trying  to  keep  me  from  you.  Help!  Help!" 

She  struggled  violently  in  her  aunt's  arms.  The  two  men 
were  standing  at  the  door  beneath  the  window.  In  dread  lest 
she  should  be  overpowered,  Mrs.  Surridge  thought  of  a  means 
of  calming  her. 

"Susie!"  she  cried.  "Listen.  I'm  wrong.  It's  not  father. 
It's  Jack  right  enough.  But  you  can't  see  him  like  this. 
Child,  you've  forgot  your  dress. " 

The  lie  sufficed.  In  an  instant  the  girl  was  standing  trying 
with  trembling  fingers  to  unbutton  her  cloak.  Mrs.  Surridge 
caught  up  the  night-dress  and  handed  it  to  her.  "Put  this 
on, "  she  whispered,  "  put  this  on,  and  then  we'll  see  Jack. " 

Susie's  face  flushed  with  pleasure.  She  gathered  the  dress 
in  her  hand  and  slipping  it  over  her  head,  stood  with  pleading 
gesture  struggling  with  the  buttons.  "Help  me,  help  me," 
she  begged.  "I  didn't  think." 


IN  LIMINE  207 

By  the  time  their  preparations  were  effected  the  men  had 
entered  and  Susie  was  gazing  expectantly  at  the  door;  watching, 
listening,  swift  to  interpret  sounds.  "Why  doesn't  he  come 
up?  Why  is  he  waiting?"  she  cried. 

"If  you'll  stand  still  an'  don't  offer  to  move,  I  will  go  an' 
call  him." 

Mrs.  Surridge  went  outside  and  held  the  door  closed  behind 
her  on  gaining  her  promise. 

"George,"  she  whispered  over  the  bannisters;  "come  up 
here." 

Sutcliffe  mounted  slowly.  "What  is  it,  sister?"  he  ques- 
tioned. 

"The  gell's  mad.  There's  no  holdin'  her.  She  thinks 
you're  Jack  Elliott — an'  she  wants  to  see  you." 

Sutcliffe  took  a  sudden  grip  on  the  rail.  "You've  told  her 
then?"  he  asked  with  grim  brevity. 

"Aye — she  forced  it  out  of  me. " 

"Best  have  left  it  to  me,"  he  groaned,  "a  job  like  that." 

"Steady,  brother.  God  give  you  strength.  Come  in  an'  see 
her.  Maybe  it'll  rouse  her.  S-h-h-!  She's  movin'." 

Mrs.  Surridge  opened  the  door  as  she  spoke  and  re-entered 
the  room.  And  as  Sutcliffe  advanced  from  the  landing  Susie 
hurried  toward  him  with  outstretched  hands.  Her  voice 
rang  plaintively  in  the  quiet  house. 

"Jack!"  she  whispered.  "Jack,  my  darling,  why  have  you 
been  so  long  away  ?  " 

She  paused  faltering,  uncertain,  and  staring  with  startled 
eyes — Sutcliffe  was  standing  now  in  full  light  of  the  lamp.  He 
waited  in  silence. 

"You — are — not  Jack,"  she  breathed."  You  are  not  Jack. 
His  hair  was — dark;  yours  is  white.  He  was  tall  and  straight; 
you  are — bent. " 


208  THE  ISSUE 

She  broke  off  abruptly.  A  quiver  ran  through  her  frame. 
She  clasped  her  hands  across  her  eyes. 

"Susie!"  Sutcliffe  cried  with  a  deep  sobbing  breath.  "My 
lil' Susie." 

She  took  down  her  hands  to  gaze.  Her  lips  quivered.  She 
cried  with  passion:  "They  said  you  were  Jack.  Go  away! 
Send  Jack  to  me!  Send  him  to  me!" 

"Lass — he's  gone." 

"Gone?" 

The  question  fell  with  an  awful  insistence.  She  started  for- 
ward, and  seizing  her  father  by  the  wrists,  stared  into  his  ashen 
face. 

"Do  you  tell  me  he  is  gone,"  she  whispered,  "gone 
without  one  word — without  one  look — without  one  kiss?  I 
don't  believe  it.  He  would  never  leave  me  so — never — never! 
Oh  God!  call  him  back  to  me — call  him  back!" 

And  the  cord  snapped.  The  girl  broke  into  a  passion  of 
tears  and  fell  at  her  father's  feet  begging  for  mercy. 


COe  Beginning  of  tbe  <£nD 

CHAPTER  I 

SAUNDERSON  MOVES 

E  evening  was  closing  in.     Far  away,  behind  the  hills, 
A       the  setting  sun  tinged  the  sky  with  streaks  of  gold  and 
crimson;    the   woods    lay    in    a    bath    of    purple    and    the 
high  elms,  standing  like  sentinels  beside  the  cottage,  shivered 
as  the  cool  wind  swept  down  the  valley. 

Susie  was  sitting  in  her  window  seat.  Some  weeks  had 
elapsed  since  she  had  been  struck  down  by  the  torture  of  that 
night  spent  in  Mrs.  Surridge's  room.  During  the  early  stages 
her  life  had  trembled  in  the  balance,  she  had  been  face  to  face 
with  death;  but  nature  had  brought  her,  pale  and  wan,  from 
the  conflict.  The  girl  who  never  before  had  known  a  day's 
illness,  whose  life  had  been  spent  in  the  free  country  air,  who 
had  delighted  always  in  abundant  exercise,  early  hours,  and 
simple  fare,  was  not  easily  cast  down.  But  the  factor  which 
most  aided  her  at  this  time  has  yet  to  be  stated.  Her  mind  was 
now  at  rest. 

Jack  was  dead.  There  was  no  longer  any  room  for  dalliance 
with  hope.  Hope  died  in  that  terrible  hour  when  Mrs.  Sur- 
ridge  had  explained.  The  certitude  of  his  death,  the  precise 
statements  she  had  heard,  the  letter  she  had  written,  now 

209 


2io  THE  ISSUE 

treasured,  water-stained  beneath  her  pillow,  left  her  no  loophole 
by  which  she  might  presently  escape;  nothing  remained  but  a 
commonplace  surrender  to  the  forces  by  which  she  was  hemmed. 
And  now  she  turned  with  redoubled  affection  towards  that  father 
who  had  tended  her  so  faithfully  through  life.  Her  father 
needed  her.  Her  father's  future  remained  in  her  hands. 

Time,  rolling  on  leaden  wheels,  had  seen  many  weary  days 
and  nights  at  the  girl's  bedside;  the  old  man  constant  in  his 
attention,  jealous  of  his  vigil.  For  the  doctor,  noting  the  effect 
of  his  quiet  presence,  had  left  him  entirely  master  of  the  sick 
room,  despite  Mrs.  Surridge's  wish  to  take  watch  and  watch 
with  him. 

And  so,  he  was  rewarded  early  one  morning, "  at  low  water," 
as  he  afterward  explained:  "by  a  voice  from  the  bed,  just  a 
quiet  whisper  of  a  voice  as  wouldn't  a  been  heard  above  the 
squawkin'  of  a  block  at  sea. 

"It  come  to  me  while  I'm  lookin'  out  of  the  window,  thinkin' 
it's  tide  time  an'  the  craft  are  all  swung  athwart  Reach,  lookin' 
for  the  flood  to  come  up.  Eh!  it's  a  pretty  sight  at  dawn,  the 
river  glintin'  yellow,  the  lights  winkin'  dim,  the  ships  all  brimful 
of  life,  but  so  quiet;  so  near  to  death — just  like  my  Susie — just 
like  my  Susie.  Then  her  voice  breaks  in  upon  me — soft,  so 
weary  soft — 'Father,' — nothin'  more,  an'  I  turned  round. 

"The  ebb's  done,  you  see;  done  this  half  hour,  an'  the  flood's 
come  up  good  an'  strong.  It's  the  springs,  you'll  remember; 
an'  when  they  do  come  along,  they  bustle  that  sharp,  that  you 
have  to  spry  wiv  your  helium,  as  the  sayin'  is. 

"Lawd!  if  I  wasn't  proud,  knock  me  down  for  an  old  fool 
that  isn't  fit  to  havecharge  of  a  craft  in  any  waters;  but  I  couldn't 
say  as  much.  You  take  my  meanin' — a  job  like  that  ?  " 

They  had  taken  his  meaning  and  given  him  a  full  share  of 
praise,  a  thing  he  deprecated  with  a  phrase.  "As  though  a 


SAUNDERSON  MOVES  *n 

man  wanted  sleep,"  he  said,  "when  life's  in  the  scales  wiv 
time. " 

Now  Sutcliffe  had  sailed.  Some  days  before  his  departure 
Susie  had  attempted  to  discover  whether  her  aunt's  remarks 
as  to  his  debts,  had  any  basis  in  fact;  but  she  had  failed  alto- 
gether to  extort  any  proof.  Her  father  had  maintained  a  ban- 
tering demeanour,  unutterably  foreign  to  him,  and  the  girl, 
reading  between  the  lines  with  the  quick  instinct  of  womanly 
love  and  intuition,  knew  that  her  aunt  had  spoken  the  truth. 

She  had  been  sitting  watching  the  sunset  and  wondering 
how  she  could  best  serve  her  father,  when  the  cottage  door 
opened  and  she  heard  her  uncle  scrubbing  his  shoes  on  the 
mat.  Her  own  door  was  ajar,  the  passage  outside,  in  semi- 
darkness.  Tom  paused  on  the  threshold  to  ask,  under  his 
breath,  "Where's  Susie?" 

Mrs.  Surridge  replied:  "Upstairs,  lyin'  down." 

"Asleep?" 

"She  was  asleep  when  I  looked  in  just  now — what's  wrong?" 

"I've  seen  that  Saundisson,  an' " 

"Hush!  come  into  the  kitchen " 

Their  whispers  ascended  the  stairs;  then  her  aunt's  voice 
grew  louder.  It  was  evident  the  conversation  waxed  in  interest. 
Susie  moved  from  her  nook  in  the  window  and  leaned  over  the 
bannisters.  Her  name  was  mentioned  coupled  with  Saunder- 
son's  as  she  crept  downward. 

"Saundisson  claims  the  gell  or  the  money,"  said  Tom  Sur- 
ridge angrily.  "I  don't  hold  with  such  nigger's  courtin'.  It 
ain't  manly.  " 

"  Susie  mustn't  wait  about — she  must  be  woke  up, "  his  wife 
retorted. 

Surridge  made  no  reply;  he  was  evidently  nonplussed  at  find- 
ing himself  in  antagonism  with  his  wife. 


212  THE  ISSUE 

"If  George  can't  find  the  money, "  she  resumed,  "why  don't 
he  say  so  an'  tell  the  gell  of  his  trouble.  I  told  her  somethin' 
of  it  six  weeks  ago  this  blessed  day — an' " 

"An'  a  nice  muss  you  made  of  it,  mother,"  Tom  replied 
with  a  rare  outburst.  Susie  could  almost  see  her  aunt's  aston- 
ishment. She  remained  a  moment  listening,  and  the  voice  again 
took  up  its  burden. 

"You're  as  bad  as  George,  Tom.  La!  why  can't  you  let  it 
alone — you  men  are  all  a  fair  image  of  each  other;  you  don't 
understand  gells  any  better  than  you  can  boil  potatoes.  Saun- 
disson's  a  fine  built  man,  an'  unless  I'm  a  mile  out,  Susie  will 
be  his  wife  before  many  weeks  have  passed — an'  as  comferable  as 
a  hen  with  a  new  brood  of  chicks. " 

Tom  groaned,    "I  don't  know.     I  don't  like  him. " 

"He's  too  big  an'  fine  for  your  fancy,  Tom,"  Mrs.  Surridge 
laughed;  "I  can't  remember  you  ever  likin'  a  big  man. " 

"I  don't  know  about  that;  I  do  know  as  Saundisson's  goin' 
to  sell  up.  O  law!  My  law!"  He  paused  with  a  gasp  as  a 
light  step  sounded  on  the  steps  and  Susie  entered,  saying  in  her 
still  voice: 

"What  is  he  going  to  sell  up,  Uncle ? " 

She  stood  so  quietly,  with  such  white,  drawn  lips  that  Tom 
meditated  an  escape.  He  moved  toward  the  door,  muttering: 
"Who's  sayin'  anythin'  about  sellin'  up?  Seems  to  me  you've 
been  dreamin' — an'  them  pigs!  O  law!  Hearken  to  Zulu — 

number  four's  gettin' "  he  broke  off  in  dismay;  for  Susie 

had  intercepted  his  passage  to  the  door,  and  now  paused  with  her 
hand  on  the  lock. 

"Never  mind  Zulu,"  she  said;  "but  tell  me  what  Jim  Saund- 
erson  is  going  to  do  ?  " 

Tom  looked  at  his  wife;  but  that  lady's  lips  were  firmly 
closed.  He  could  see  no  help  in  her  eyes.  It  was  useless  to  deny 


SAUNDERSON  MOVES 


any  longer  what  he  had  said.  The  girl  read  him  like  a  book. 
He  drew  near  the  table. 

"Saundisson  has  got  father  in  a  hole,"  he  blurted,  "an*  he's 
puttin'  on  the  screw  —  twistin'  him,  same  as  you'd  twist  a  cow's 
tail  you  wanted  to  hustle.  "  Then  amazed  at  his  own  effrontery, 
he  gazed  in  astonishment  at  the  calm  lips  putting  a  further 
question. 

"Has  he  asked  for  the  —  money  then?" 

"Law!  Susie,  that's  a  trifle  —  a  trifle.  He  says,  'pay  me  — 
or,'  law  .  .  .  'or  I  sell  the  house.'" 

Susie  took  a  long  breath,  but  stood  firm.  "Where  is  Mother  ? 
Is  she  still  there?"  she  questioned. 

"  He's  turned  her  out.  She's  gone  —  but  no  one  knows  where 
she's  gone.  In  Abbeyville  they  say  Saundisson  chucked  her 
along  of  her  behaviour  to  you,  Susie." 

Mrs.  Surridge  intervened  with  a  sigh:  "Ah!  There's  heart 
for  you,  Tom.  " 

Tom  snorted. 

"That's  what  I  call  heart,  "  his  wife  emphasised.  "I  doubt 
that  if  he  had  the  power  to  squeeze  her  also,  she  would  have 
been  squeezed  —  an'  all  for  the  sake  of  -  " 

"Jim  Saunderson  may  have  done  it  for  my  sake,  Auntie," 
Susie  returned,  "and  he  may  have  done  it  simply  because 
Mother  is  no  further  use  to  him.  I  shall  always  be  inclined 
to  doubt  Jim  Saunderson's  motives." 

"Hear  that,  Mother?  Law!  isn't  that  what  I  say?"  Tom 
cried  in  triumph.  Mrs.  Surridge  took  no  notice  of  her  husband  ; 
she  turned  to  the  girl. 

"You  are  wrong,"  she  said.  "Why  look  how  good  he  was 
when  you  were  ill.  Do  you  think  a  man's  all  bad  as  can  act 
as  he  has?" 

"No,  I  don't  say  that  he  has  no  good  in  him.    We  all  have 


214  THE  ISSUE 

a  little  good.  Still,  sometimes  it  is  so  hidden  by  the  bad  that 
it  hardly  appears.  But,"  she  turned  to  her  uncle,  "do  you 
know  when  this — this  sale  is  to  take  place  ?  Have  you  heard 
anything  ?  " 

"It's  threatened  for  the  next  time  father's  at  home,  Susie," 
Tom  replied  with  some  hesitation. 

The  girl  took  a  deep  breath.  "Then  we  have  a  fortnight  to — 
to  find  the  money." 

"That's  it,  Susie;  to  a  hair  it  is." 

"And  need  be  in  no  hurry,"  Susie  continued.  "And — a 
fortnight  is  a  long  time.  I  shall  write  to — a  friend  of  mine 
who  may  be  able  to  help.  So  we  will  say  nothing  about  it  to 
anyone,  please — and  now  we  can  have  tea.  I  am  so  thirsty, 
Auntie,  I  could  drink — oh,  I  don't  know  what  I  could 
drink." 

Mrs.  Surridge  approached  with  persuasion  written  in  every 
line  of  her  comely  face.  She  whispered:  "Who  is  your  friend, 
Susie  ?  Is  it  Mr.  Oakley  ?  Is  it  ?  " 

"No.     I  could  not  ask  him  now.     Come  let  us  have  tea. " 

Tom  waited  to  hear  no  more.  He  glanced  shamedly  into  the 
girl's  face,  stared  at  his  wife,  and  disappeared  in  the  direction 
of  the  sties. 

An  hour  later  Susie  was  sitting  again  in  her  room  gazing 
through  the  window.  Twilight  still  lingered  in  the  sou 'west, 
a  tinge  only,  very  soft,  very  indefinite,  blending  with  the  light 
of  the  stronger  moon.  The  pure,  cold  rays  flooded  the  land 
and  fell  shivering  through  the  panes,  throwing  elongated  dia- 
monds across  the  floor.  Trembling  patches  of  light,  blurred 
and  misty,  mingled  with  the  darker  spaces  shadowed  by  the 
walls;  a  naked  arm  of  wistaria  moved  gently  without,  throwing 
unstable  lines  across  the  sill.  The  infinite  peace  and  solemnity 
of  the  scene  sank  into  the  girl's  heart.  It  led  her  away  from  the 


SAUNDERSON  MOVES  215 

weary  episodes  of  recent  days,  bidding  her  remember  what  had 
been. 

She  grew  strong  and  confident  as  she  sat  there  staring  into 
the  subtle  light.  Thoughts  came  and  went  in  silence.  With- 
out volition,  without  the  smallest  effort  of  will,  the  past  swam 
down  the  stream  of  memory.  She  lived,  as  the  Old  live,  in 
the  recollection  of  what  had  been,  and  the  pictures  came  un- 
asked. 

Far  through  the  night  she  perceived  her  room  in  the  old 
home  in  Abbeyville,  A  pretty  window,  draped  in  white  dimity, 
overlooked  the  river.  It  was  dark  out  there,  and  the  light  on 
the  Point  blazed  like  a  brazier,  throwing  recurrent  flashes 
across  her.  A  moment  it  was  hidden :  ah,  a  barge  was  crossing 
her  line  of  vision;  its  sails  shut  out  the  glare. 

Farther  in  the  distance  a  double  tier  of  lamps  burned  steadily; 
they  shivered  in  the  waters  almost  to  the  garden  foot.  Hark! 
A  bugle  call.  "Lights  out"  on  the  training  ship.  The  young- 
sters were  going  to  bed.  How  beautiful  it  was ;  how  full  of  peace 
that  outlook  in  the  home  of  her  childhood.  Downstairs,  stand- 
ing on  the  sofa  in  childish  expectancy,  she  had  waited  for 
her  father's  arrival;  outside,  at  the  edge  of  the  garden,  in  later 
years  she  had  waited  and  watched  for  the  first  indication  of  the 
black-sailed  brig,  moving  from  the  shadowy  reaches  beyond; 
the  reaches  from  whence  her  father  always  came  with  treasures, 
and  she  had  assumed  the  right  to  search  his  pockets  in  the  full 
knowledge  that  treasures  were  there.  In  that  old  home  she 
had  received  them;  an  infinite  variety  of  keepsakes,  all 
stored  now,  all  unreachable,  telling  the  story  of  a  father's 
devotion  and  her  increasing  years. 

Everything  she  loved  was  in  that  house.  There  were  her 
pictures,  her  books,  her  trinkets.  All  he  and  she  held  dear 
was  congregated  within  the  four  walls  of  the  old  weather-board 


216  THE  ISSUE 

house  where  her  father  had  suffered  without  a  whisper  of  com- 
plaint during  those  years  of  her  step-mother's  reign.  There 
he  had  lived,  struggling  in  the  meshes  of  growing  debts  and 
diminishing  wages,  for  interminable  years — for  her  sake.  All 
for  her  sake.  A  weary  task.  An  unending  sacrifice.  And 
now,  when  life  was  nearly  spent,  when  he  was  drifting  slowly 
with  the  ebbing  tide,  now,  Saunderson  stepped  forward  and 
said,  "Pay  me  what  you  owe." 

What  could  she  do?  How  could  she  help.  Compared  with 
his  great  record,  she  could  do  but  little  in  truth.  Her  future — 
she  had  no  future.  Jack  was  dead.  It  lay  with  her  to  save  her 
father.  In  honour  nothing  else  remained.  Yet,  how  could  she 
aid  him  ? 

By  appealing  to  Saunderson's  generosity? 

As  well  appeal  to  the  unending  procession  of  stars  and  bid 
them  wait  her  convenience;  as  well  appeal  to  the  rolling  tide 
and  beg  mercy  for  some  drowning  wretch  lying  on  sands  already 
half  submerged.  For  Saunderson  knew  no  mercy,  compassion, 
self-denial,  nor  any  of  the  kindred  virtues,  and  Susie  was  aware 
of  it. 

There  was  but  one  way  in  which  she  could  be  of  service,  one 
way  in  which  she  could  rescue  her  father  from  the  clutches  of 
his  enemy.  It  was  the  way  practised  by  women  in  all  ranks 
and  grades  of  life — her  surrender.  Tom  Surridge's  words 
filled  her  ears:  "Saunderson  claims  the  gell  or  the  money." 

Terse,  unutterably  terse,  but  definite  terms. 

The  night  had  grown  in  silence.  A  faint  whisper  rustled  in 
the  trees;  the  wistaria  nodded  and  beckoned  before  the  window. 
Far  away  in  the  distant  valley  an  engine  shrieked  and  the  dull 
roar  of  a  train  droned  sleepily  in  the  stillness.  A  blackbird 
awakened  from  his  sleep,  flew  to  an  uppermost  bough  and  piped 
a  dozen  stanzas  in  antiphone  with  his  mate.  The  peaceful  moon 


SAUNDERSON  MOVES  217 

shining  with  the  light  of  a  dead  world,  peered  through  the  deep- 
set  window  and  glanced  across  the  quiet  room. 

It  searched  amidst  the  white  bed- wrappings;  tinged  the 
farther  wall  with  a  picture  of  waving  branches,  twigs,  and  cling- 
ing ivy,  and  fell  lovingly  on  the  figure  of  a  young  girl,  kneeling 
with  hidden  face  among  the  draperies  at  the  bed-foot.  And 
something  of  the  ineffable  purity  of  its  glance  was  reflected  in 
her  suppliant  attitude,  as  she  paused  [there,  bowed  in  silent 
prayer  before  the  Throne  of  God. 


CHAPTER  n 

CONDITIONAL 

A  GAIN  some  hours  had  sped;  hours  full  of  unrest;  full  of 
-tT\  halting  action,  fear,  hope;  then  the  news  of  Saunder- 
son's  presence  at  Abbeyville  came  and  Susie  knew  that 
she  could  delay  no  longer.  In  a  sense  she  was  glad  that 
she  knew ;  for  action  could  take  the  place  of  inaction ;  decision  of 
indecision.  Sutcliff e  was  still  away.  It  had  become  imperative 
that  she  should  move  at  once,  if  she  would  effect  his  salvation. 
She  was  glad  of  the  certainty,  and  for  the  moment,  revelled  in 
the  knowledge  that  at  length  she  could  be  of  some  service. 

Early  one  afternoon,  she  started  across  country  for  Abbey- 
ville. It  was  the  first  time  she  had  ventured  on  those  hallowed 
paths  since  Jack  had  gone.  She  knew  the  way  blindfold.  It 
was  the  hunting  ground  of  her  childhood;  a  way  she  had 
learned  to  tramp  in  many  a  ramble;  the  way  she  had  traversed 
with  her  lover  that  night  when  he  had  accompanied  her  across 
the  woods  to  Swinfleet.  Then,  as  in  those  earlier  days,  Jack 
had  been  at  her  side  to  beguile  the  time  with  love  and  kisses. 
Now  Jack  was  dead,  and  she  moved  in  silence  across  a  wintry 
land,  a  land  peopled  by  memories,  alone  and  in  dread. 

It  was  bitter  to  traverse  it  thus;  bitter  to  recognise  the  cause 
of  her  loneliness;  bitter  to  remember  the  errand  that 
took  her  again  to  Abbeyville.  She  set  her  mind  resolutely, 
determined  to  forget.  Vain,  all  vain.  Memory  stood  between 
her  and  oblivion.  As  well  as  attempt  to  stem  the  tide  of  Father 
Thames  as  to  hush  the  voices  whispering  of  what  had  been. 

218 


CONDITIONAL  219 

Here,  by  the  cross-roads,  barely  four  months  ago,  she  had 
parted  from  her  lover,  and  for  the  last  time  watched  him  out  of 
sight.  The  last  ?  Aye,  for  on  that  other  occasion  he  had  fled 
in  the  dead  of  the  night;  while  a  dense  fog  had  curtained  the 
land,  and  she  lay  dazed  with  the  agony  of  his  departure. 

What  an  array  of  fateful  incident  jostled  and  surged  about 
her.  How  monstrous  the  procession  of  stern  events.  Cheek 
by  jowl  with  illness;  cheek  by  jowl  with  death — all  past — all 
done  with,  and  only  memory  alive.  It  was  hateful,  torturing — 
a  phantasy  from  which  she  could  not  escape. 

She  came  to  the  woods,  walking  quickly  down  the  winding, 
rutted  way.  Here,  on  the  right,  was  the  copse  in  which  Jack 
had  taken  her  in  his  arms  and  asked  her  to  be  his  wife.  That 
was  long  ago  .  .  .  long  ago.  There,  at  the  verge  of  the 
clearing,  the  woman  had  intervened;  they  had  turned  back; 
she  had  grown  tired;  Jack  had  made  a  bed  of  leaves  and  sheltered 
her  with  his  arms — long  ago  .  .  .  long  ago.  There, 
in  that  gorse-strewn  dell,  they  had  talked  and  planned  and 
dreamed  of  a  transcendant  future.  Now  Jack  was  dead — yet 
she  remained,  lingering  sadly  to  aid  her  father. 

Without  his  presence  the  world  would  soon  have  lacked 
hers.  Without  the  recognition  of  his  enduring  faithfulness, 
no  such  ordeal  would  have  been  possible.  Susie  would  have 
gone  the  way  of  many  a  sufferer.  Quietly,  without  remorse, 
she  would  have  entered  the  Silent  Courts  through  the  dark  ave- 
nue she  knew  so  well;  but  now  that  mode  of  freedom,  paltry  and 
jarring  with  a  hateful  cowardice,  no  longer  existed.  Her 
father  lived.  She  stood  in  the  gap  between  him  and  beggary; 
for,  to  him,  and  to  all  men  of  Sutcliffe's  type,  the  "House" 
remains  anathema. 

This  Susie  knew  only  too  well.  She  knew,  too,  that  should 
he  gain  an  inkling  of  her  intention,  he  would  prevent  it.  After 


220  THE  ISSUE 

all,  she  argued,  did  it  matter  whom  she  married?  Jack  was 
dead.  His  death  freed  her  to  do  as  she  willed.  Other  women 
had  married  men  whom  they  hated — why  not  ?  It  was  in  the 
nature  of  things  that  people  could  not  always  do  as  they  wished 
— unless  they  were  rich.  Then  it  mattered  very  little  what 
they  did.  She  found  herself  wondering  what  would  have 
been  Mr.  Oakley's  attitude  had  she  been  rich.  The  question 
crossed  her  in  so  many  ways;  but  always  the  answer  remained 
steadfast:  "In  that  case,  he  would  have  continued  my  friend. " 

She  waited  a  long  while  sitting  on  a  felled  trunk  near  the 
pond  at  the  Shorncombe  end  of  the  woods.  The  thoughts 
troubled  her.  The  proximity  of  those  well-remembered  paths 
grew  as  a  burden  from  which  she  could  not  escape.  She  was 
appalled  at  the  trend  of  her  fancies:  Jack  was  dead.  She 
was  moving  to  save  her  father.  Nothing  else  mattered. 

It  was  growing  dusk  when  she  at  length  passed  from  the 
shady  footway  and  entered  on  the  long  village  streets.  These 
she  traversed  without  interruption,  and  striking  down  the 
highroad,  came  to  a  narrow  turning,  a  footway  leading  to  the 
river.  A  tortuous,  railed-in  path,  along  the  verge  of  old  chalk 
cuttings,  took  her  to  the  bush-grown  dell  they  called  the  Spin- 
ney— the  place  of  all  others,  consecrated  in  her  memory  to 
Jack.  She  crossed  the  turf  and  stood  a  moment  among  the 
trees,  and  the  trees  spoke  to  her,  bidding  her  welcome  with 
sad,  soft  voices.  Out  there  was  the  river.  Beside  her  the 
bushes.  Above  her  the  voices.  She  flung  herself  at  the  foot  of 
the  trees,  grovelling  in  the  grass. 

"It  is  mine!  It  is  mine!  Nobody  must  touch  it — it  was 
for  me  alone.  See,  here  are  the  crosses  he  cut:  those  were  for 
kisses.  Here  is  my  name — twined  with  his:  that  was  for  luck. 
This  branch  he  broke  away  from  yonder:  it  was  for  me  to  lean 
against.  It  is  mine — mine — mine.  Jack  made  it  for  me. 


CONDITIONAL  221 

Now  Jack  is  gone  and  I  am  alone.  I  do  not  want  it.  I  can — 
never  want  it  again. 

"Oh!  give  me  strength.  God  help  me  and  teach  me  how 
to  pray!  When  I  was  little  I  prayed  for  everything.  Then 
mother  came  and  I  could  pray  no  more.  Now  I  cannot  pray. 
I  am  miserable — heartbroken — fallen.  I  have  done  wrong. 
I  have  done  nothing  right  and  I  am  afraid  ...  I  am 
afraid  of  myself  .  .  .  and  so  I  ask  for  help.  Oh,  God, 
give  me  strength — teach  me  what  I  must  do." 

Her  voice  echoed  amidst  the  trees  and  the  trees  looked  down 
through  leafless  arms,  murmuring,  cajoling,  whispering  of  the 
one  great  certitude — death.  She  looked  up,  sobbing  with  the 
burden  of  a  sorrow  too  heavy  to  be  borne.  She  lay  exhausted  on 
the  turf,  staring  out  upon  the  winding  river,  and  always  the 
one  answer  came  to  her:  the  only  certainty  is  death,  there  is 
no  other — none. 

The  violence  of  her  grief  had  brought  exhaustion,  but  the 
night  restored  her.  She  rested  after  a  time  upon  her  arm, 
watching  the  familiar  scene.  The  quiet  solemnity  of  the  still  even- 
ing; the  whispering,  friendly  trees,  leaning  out  with  that  strange 
answer;  the  glinting  river  with  its  load  of  moving  shipping,  and 
her  own  desire  for  guidance,  brought  the  relief  she  craved. 
She  was  less  breathless,  less  excited,  less  fearful  now.  She 
sat  a  long  while  staring  into  the  night,  and  the  night  soothed 
her  as  only  Nature  can  soothe  her  children.  The  future  faded 
from  her  vision.  Just  a  short,  and  perhaps  stormy,  interval 

awaited  her — then Something  moved  on  the  path  close 

at  hand.  She  stood  up  and  the  denial  of  that  whispered 
answer,  all  unrecognised  as  it  was,  confronted  her. 

Tony  Crow  paused  on  the  grass  before  her.  Tony  Crow 
the  village  blacksmith,  the  man  of  many  inches  and  the  heart 
of  a  little  child — he  bore  the  denial.  He  said  in  his  strangely 


222  THE  ISSUE 

mixed  dialect:  "Ah  thowt  ah  saw  sommat  flutterin'  abaht 
t'trees.  Socks!  ah'm  praad  t'see  ye,  lassie." 

Susie  shook  indecision  to  the  winds  and  advanced  to  meet 
him. 

"I  didn't  notice  you,"  she  cried.  "Have  you  been  here 
long?  I  came  over  to — to  look  at  the  old  place  again.  You 
see " 

"  Then  it's  weel  ah  commed  this  way, "  he  interrupted. 

"Why?" 

"Because  you  could  na  get  in.  Susie,  the  bums  are  in  t'owd 
house.  What  is  father  doin'?" 

She  replied  with  scarcely  a  quaver:  "That  is  curious,  for 
I  came  over  on  purpose  to  arrange  it.  You  see  Father  is  away. 
Can  you  tell  me  where  I  can  find  Mr.  Saunderson,  Tony  ?  " 

"  He's  on  t'sea- wall.  Gone  to  look  round  V Bluebell.  Hewull 
be  comin'  back  presently  ah  knaw.  Socks! "  he  added  shuffling 
with  his  feet  on  the  gravel,  "but  ah'm  glad  t'hear  you  c'n 
settle  it.  Ye  may  have  perceivet  thot  ah  have  no  great  love 
for  Saundisson — ah  weesh  ah  had  the  power,  if  ah  wud  not 
bring  him  oop  wi  a  rahnd  turn — ah'm  dommed,  an'  thot's 
Yerkshur.  Gude  nicht,  lassie. " 

He  disappeared  down  the  path,  his  long  legs  moving  swiftly, 
his  arms  swinging,  his  head  erect  and  menacing.  But  Susie 
did  not  see.  Indeed  she  scarcely  heard  his  words,  that  other 
phrase,  unspeakable  and  degrading,  rang  in  her  brain:  "the 
bums  are  in  the  old  house."  Anger  mastered  her.  For  a 
while  as  she  walked  toward  the  river  her  thoughts  were  in 
tumult;  but  again  the  cool  night  air  soothed  her  and  she  recog- 
nised the  futility  of  battle,  the  uselessness  of  strife,  the  neces- 
sity for  calm  and  unimpassioned  thought.  She  reached  the  sea- 
wall and  stood  looking  out  into  the  dying  afterglow. 

How  long  she  paused  there,  how  long  the  pictures  of  her 


CONDITIONAL  223 

past  life  flashed  before  her,  she  did  not  know.  The  only  recog- 
nised fact  was  the  heavy  and  irregular  sound  made  by  Saun- 
derson  as  he  advanced  to  meet  her.  Then  his  voice,  with  that 
curious,  ringing  tone,  so  thrilling  and  yet  so  hateful,  fell  on  her 
ears:  "Susie,  I  didn't  think  to  see  you  here." 

She  approached  the  object  of  her  visit  at  once:  "Father  is 
still  away,"  she  announced:   "he  was  unable  to  come — and  so 


"Father  has  never  wanted  to  come,  Susie,  so  far  as  I  can 
make  out,"  he  broke  in  with  a  touch  of  anger. 

"Don't  say  that — don't  say  that.  He  has  had  so  much 
trouble — or  he  would  have  paid  you. " 

"I  won't  disbelieve  you,"  he  replied  with  a  tinge  of  sarcasm; 
"still  he  might  have  arranged  to  answer  my  letters." 

"Your  letters?" 

"Several — all  unanswered." 

"Father  is  a  poor  scholar;  he  can't  write  well — or — read 
much."  She  faltered  the  fact  as  if  in  extenuation,  but 
Saunderson  pushed  it  aside  with  a  brusque  gesture.  He  said 
roughly: 

"He  might  have  shown  em  to  those  who  can. " 

"You  don't  know  him.  Indeed,  indeed  you  don't.  He 
could  not  do  that.  He  never  tells  strangers  of  his  affairs." 

"  He  need  not  have  done  that  either,"  Saunderson  returned, 
still  with  the  tinge  of  sarcasm. 

Susie  paused;  she  knew  they  only  fenced  with  words,  and 
wished  unutterably  that  he  would  say  what  he  had  to  say — 
what  she  knew  he  would  say,  presently,  when  this  fencing,  this 
stupidity  was  over.  She  looked  up  and  discovered  his  eyes 
were  fixed  upon  her.  He  was  holding  out  his  hand — advan- 
cing to  take  hers.  He  was  speaking  also. 

"Father  might  have  shown   them  to  you,  Susie,"  he  said 


224  THE  ISSUE 

and  reached  her  side.  She  watched  him,  and  the  question 
moved  on  her  lips: 

"And  now  it  is  too  late?" 

"It  is  too  late  unless — unless " 

"Well?" 

"Unless  you  care  to  change  your  mind,  maybe." 

The  girl  was  conscious  of  one  thing  during  this  dialogue. 
The  suggestion  was  hers;  the  sentences  were  hers;  but  beyond 
yawned  a  gulf.  She  had  no  volition  in  the  matter.  The  con- 
versation went  on  the  lines  made  inevitable  by  the  man  with 
whom  she  spoke.  She  turned  towards  him  and  again  words 
fell  from  her  lips: 

"  You  know  I  would  save  him — if  I  could." 

"Then  you  shall!"  he  nearly  shouted. 

She  lifted  her  hand  and  he  drew  back  as  though  ashamed  of 
his  vehemence. 

"You  know  I  do  not  love  you    .    .     .    you  know " 

"I  know  that  I  love  you,"  he  continued  swiftly. 

"That  I  love "  she  essayed  and  paused. 

"Never  mind  your  love,"  he  broke  in  with  rough  eloquence; 
"think  of  me.  Think  of  the  old  man.  Think  of  the  smoothin' 
down  of  difficulties  for  all.  Love!  You  needn't  do  much 
lovin'.  I  can  do  all  that — I  love  you  enough  for  forty.  I 
love  you  so  as  no  woman  was  ever  loved  before.  I  love  you 
with  a  love  that  burns  the  soul-case  out  of  me.  I'm  fair  sick 
with  longin',  with  waitin'  an'  playin'  the  fool.  Come  to  me, 
Susie!"  he  moved  a  step  nearer,  speaking  more  softly,  "come 
an'  even  if  you  don't  love  me,  it  makes  no  sort  of  difference.  I 
love  you — an'  your  love  for  me  will  come." 

The  girl  shrank  before  the  passion  of  his  appeal.  The 
words  appalled  her.  She  could  not  speak.  She  found  his 
fingers  gripping  hers,  drawing  her  to  him  and  a  sudden 


CONDITIONAL  225 

lethargy  overcame  her.  She  found  herself  sinking  in  his 
arms. 

"You  are  mine — mine,"  he  whispered  in  her  ear.  "My 
Gawd,  Susie,  you  are  mine!" 

His  passion  aroused  her,  she  struggled  violently  for  freedom, 
crying  aloud  her  conditions.  "Stay!  You  must  prove 
yourself  worthy  of  my  trust — you  must — you  must!  How 
dare  you  attempt  to  hold  me!  Stand  back — or  I  will  never 
speak  to  you  again." 

He  released  her  instantly.  He  was  stung  by  the  quick  hard 
tones;  but  still  he  watched  her;  still  looked  hungrily  into  her 
quivering  face. 

"What  must  I  do?"  he  asked  at  length.  "Tell  me  what 
I  must  do. " 

She  faced  him,  striving  to  speak  without  hurry.  "You  have 
put  some  one  in  the  old  house.  It  was  ungenerous;  you  must 
send  them  away — send  them  at  once." 

"If  you  wish  it,"  he  replied. 

"You  will  give  me  a  receipt  for  this — money?" 

"I  will,  Susie — when  you  are  mine." 

"I  will  marry  you.  You  promise  never  to  make  any  further 
claim  on  him — you  promise  that  before  God?" 

"Never,  Susie — before  Gawd  I  promise  it.  But  it's  on  one 
condition,  you  understand  that." 

"I  understand,"  she  returned  without  a  tremor;  "that  I  am 
to  be  your  wife." 

"That's  your  promise?"  he  questioned,  half  in  doubt. 

"Yes." 

"When — to-morrow  ?  " 

"That  is  impossible.  You  must  give  notice.  The  day 
after,  if  you  wish — at  the  registry  office  in  Riverton.  You 
understand?  and  you  will  bring  the — papers?" 


226  THE  ISSUE 

"I  will— I  will." 

"I  told  you  that  I  do  not  love  you — that  I " 

He  broke  in  with  a  swift  sentence.     "No  matter." 

"And  you  have  heard  about — about "  Susie  paused,  a 

sudden  tremor  filled  her  voice,  and  Saunderson  picked  up  the 
phrase: 

"About  Jack  Elliott?    Of  course  I  have." 

"You  know  that  I  was  driven  from  home — by  my  mother — 
and  that " 

"Susie,  I  know  all." 

She  pursued  the  subject  with  calm  intonation ;  but  with  pulses 
that  leaped  and  throbbed  and  burned:  "And  you  would  marry 
me — no  matter  what  had  happened " 

Again  the  hurried  and  passionate  tones  of  the  man  overcame 
her  own.  He  cried  out  with  sudden  vehemence:  "I  would 
marry  you,  Susie,  if  you  told  me  you  slept  that  night  in  the 
gutter.  I'd  marry  you  if  you  told  me  you're  Elliott's  wife.  I'd 
marry  you  no  matter  what  had  been.  Why?  Because  I  love 
you — because  I'm  mad,  a  fool  wiv  longin' — fair  dizzy  wiv  the 
strain  of  waitin' — so  now  you  have  me  on  the  hip." 

Susie  shuddered  involuntarily.  Her  face  was  ashen,  her 
voice  scarcely  reached  a  whisper. 

"I  think,"  she  said,  "there  is  nothing  more  to  speak  of." 

"Except — what  time  will  you  meet  me  in  Riverton?" 

"Eleven  o'clock.    Will  that  do?" 

"It  will  do  if  you  say  so.  Everything  will  do — only  look 
at  me  an'  say  you're  glad  to  be  able  to  square  this  trouble ;  that 
you  will  come  to  love  me  with  tune;  that  you  don't  hate  me 
now — say  it,  Susie." 

She  faced  him,  looking  very  white;  her  voice  tremulous  and 
full  of  tears:  "I  am  glad "  she  said,  then  halted. 

"  Jim,"  he  suggested. 


CONDITIONAL  227 

"I  am  glad  we  have  been  able  to  arrange  it — and — but  you 
will  bring  the  papers.  I  shall  not  many  you  until  I  have  the 
papers." 

"No  further,  lass?"  he  questioned,  watching  her  closely; 
"can't  get  on  with  it  any  further — yet?  Well  .  .  .  I'll 
bring  the  papers.  I'll  wait,  Susie.  I  would  do  more  than  that 
to  get  your  love.  You  understand  me.  You  know  there  is 
nothin'  I  wouldn't  do  to  get  you — nothin' — nothin'  on  all 
God's  earth.  Come  .  .  .  kiss  me  .  .  .  Susie;  let  us 
begin  all  over  again." 

She  looked  round  helplessly,  averting  her  face.  "Oh!  I 
can't,"  she  begged.  "Not  yet — not  yet." 

He  drew  back  with  a  touch  of  disappointment.  "I'll  wait," 
he  said.  Then  suddenly  broke  out;  "Susie,  do  you  know  what 
this  means  to  me?  Do  you  guess?  No;  you  can't.  But  I'll 
tell  you.  It  means  strength — it  means  power — it  means  hap- 
piness. With  you  to  help  me  I'll  climb  high.  With  your  love 
to  aid  me  my  stumblin'  block  goes.  I'm  not  educated  as  you 
are — we  will  work  an'  push  forward.  I  will  lead  these  sweated 
workers.  I'll  help  them  get  their  deserts — a  fuller  wage;  a 
stronger  position.  The  masters  shall  come  to  know 
there's  somethin'  in  Win'bag  Saunderson  after  all — and  you 
will  help  me?  Susie!  say  you  will  help  me." 

"I  will  try,"  she  faltered. 

"  I  ask  no  more,"  he  replied. 


CHAPTER  III 

TOM'S  DEFENCE 

IT  WAS  the  morning  of  the  sacrifice.      The  morning  of 
the  day  named  after   the  one-eyed  god  of  Scandinavian 
mythology  whose  wisdom    is    proverbial — Wednesday,  and 
the  country  lying  under  a  pall  of  clouds  which  had  shrouded 
the  sky  since  sunrise. 

Susie  had  been  up  for  hours  watching  the  falling  rain  and 
waiting  to  speak  to  her  uncle.  Tom  Surridge  usually  journeyed 
to  Riverton  on  Wednesday  and  on  this  occasion  the  girl  was  to 
accompany  him.  She  had  preferred  her  request  so  eagerly  on 
the  night  she  returned  from  Abbeyville,  that  Surridge,  noting 
her  white  and  pleading  glance,  promised  to  go,  "come  wet  or 
fine."  He  had  wondered  in  his  simple  and  passive  fashion 
what  made  her  so  earnest.  But  there  his  curiosity  ended,  for 
Susie  had  made  him  promise  that  he  would  not  divulge  her 
secret,  and  he,  being  mindful  of  another  occasion,  attempted 
nothing  in  the  way  of  comfort.  Thus,  it  was  not  until  they  were 
ready  to  start,  that  Mrs.  Surridge  was  made  cognisant  of  the 
intended  trip. 

She  was  instantly  loud  in  her  expression  of  the  folly  of  all 
mankind,  and  her  husband  in  particular,  when  presently  Tom 
ventured  to  side  with  Susie.  "Sakes!  child,  you'll  catch  your 
death,"  she  asserted. 

A  wistful  expression  crept  into  the  girl's  eyes,  but  she  smiled 
and  moved  towards  the  door.  Mrs.  Surridge  recognised  that 
her  arguments  had  no  weight.  She  shook  her  head  sadly — 

228 


TOM'S  DEFENCE  229 

"Well,  if  you  must  go,  put  on  a  jacket  under  your  rain  cloak : 
you  shan't  go  unless." 

"Thanks,  don't  bother  about  me,  Auntie — see,  I  am  quite 
warm." 

She  held  forth  her  hand,  and  Mrs.  Surridge  caught  it  in  her 
own:  "Some  people,"  she  remarked,  "fair  stagger  a  person  with 
their  onaccountable  contrariness.  If  it's  hot,  you're  like  a 
blessed  icicle;  if  it's  cold  and  rainin'  an'  miserable  as  a  wash'us 
with  no  winda,  you're  burnin'  like  the  sun  through  a  presim. 
Go  along!  Put  on  your  coat — I  have  no  patience  with  you." 

Half  an  hour  later  Susie  was  seated  beside  her  uncle  and 
the  trap  was  carrying  them  fast  toward  Riverton.  The  girl 
was  strangely  silent,  and  Tom,  to  make  his  abstraction  less 
apparent,  had  found  it  necessary  to  bestow  so  many  orders  and 
flicks  of  the  whip  on  the  mare,  that  his  patient  servitor  felt 
distinctly  ill-used  and  resentful.  By  the  time  they  reached 
the  cross  roads  at  the  top  of  the  hill  Susie  found  courage  to 
say: 

"Will  you  be  very  busy  to-day,  Uncle?  Could  you  put  the 
horse  up  somewhere  for  an  hour  ?  " 

Tom  instantly  forgot  the  worries  of  driving.  "I  can  put  her 
up  if  you  want  me  to,"  he  answered.  "I  can't  say  as  I  have  a 
power  o'  work  to  do.  What  is  it  you  want  ?  " 

"  I  am  going  to  be  married,"  she  returned  more  distinctly. 

Tom  gulped  with  astonishment.  He  replaced  the  whip  in  its 
socket  and  rapped  out  crescendo  variations  of  his  most  useful 
swear- word.  "Law!  Oh,  law!  My  law!"  Then  with  an 
incredible  twist,  "Married?" 

"Yes — and  I  want  you  to  help  me." 

"Susie,  you're  jokin' — surelie  you're  jokin'." 

"Indeed,  I'm  not." 

"Then — then  you  ought  to  be,"  Tom  said  this  with  huge  deci- 


23o  THE  ISSUE 

sion;  but  reading  in  her  eyes  that  this  opinion  carried  no  weight, 
he  fell  back  on  entreaty.  "Why,  where's  father,  an'  auntie, 
an'  the  white  dress  an'  fal-lals,  Susie?  Wheer's  any  of  the 
things  they  have  at  a  weddin'  ?  An'  who's  it  to  be  ?  " 

"Jim  Saunderson,  Uncle." 

"  Susie,  I'm  goin'  back.  I  can't  listen  to  sech  things.  There 
would  be  ructions  if  I  did.  An'  what  my  old  woman,  your 
auntie,  my  dear,  would  say,  goodness  onlie  knows.  Why, 
earthquakes,  an'  wars,  an'  sudden  deaths  would  be  a  fool  to  it. 
Whoa,  mare!  Whoa!" 

He  checked  the  trap  as  he  spoke  and  sat  watching  the  girl's 
face.  She  half -rose,  pushing  aside  the  apron.  "If  you  go 
back  I  shall  walk,"  she  said  very  distinctly.  "Let  me  get  down 
please." 

"You  can't  walk,  child — it's  as  wet  as  wet,  an'  we  are  more 
than  two  miles  from  Riverton." 

She  put  her  hand  on  his  arm  with  a  caressing  gesture:  "Then 
drive  on — there's  a  good,  kind  uncle.  I  must  go.  I  have 
promised.  It  will  make  no  difference." 

Tom  Surridge  groaned  and  gave  the  mare  a  cut  that  sent  her 
onward  with  renewed  vigour.  "Of  all  the  trapesin's  I've  ever 
been  on,"  he  remarked  uncomfortably,  "this  is  the  licker. 
Why,  what's  the  use  of  me  at  a  weddin'?  I  don't  know  any- 
thin'  about  weddin's.  I've  only  been  at  one  myself,  as  I  know 
of,  an'  the  old  woman  dragged  me  through  that  by  the  scruff,  as 
you  might  say.  Law!  what's  the  use  of  havin'  me?  Why  it's 
no  use — you  might  as  well  have  Zulu  to  see  you  straight  as 
me." 

"There  will  be  nothing  for  you  to  do,  except  witness,"  she 
urged,  "you  can't  refuse — you  won't  refuse." 

"Refuse!"  he  cried  in  great  perturbation,  and  again,  "wit- 
ness! Why,  what  do  I  know  about  witnessin'  an'  such? 


TOM'S  DEFENCE  231 

Nuthin'.  Less  than  nothin'.  Wait  a  bit,  my  deary;  don't  you 
go  an'  make  a  blessed  hash  of  it  .  .  .  an'  what  about  the 
letters  if  they  come  ?  " 

She  faced  him  with  cold  decision.  "No  letters  can  come 
now;  or,  if  they  do,  you  must  keep  them." 

He  made  no  further  remark.  The  girl's  quiet  insistence 
effectually  silenced  him.  He  held  his  peace  as  was  his  custom 
when  worsted  by  the  severer  oratory  of  his  wife. 

It  was  but  little  short  of  eleven  o'clock  when  the  trap  woke 
the  echoes  of  the  quiet,  wide  street  in  which  is  situated  the  River- 
ton  registry  office.  As  they  approached,  Saunderson  emerged 
from  the  shelter  of  an  adjoining  archway  and  came  to  meet 
them.  He  was  dressed  in  his  most  dazzling  war-paint.  A  blue, 
braided,  peak  cap;  a  blue  reefer  suit,  velvet  collar  and  an  elabor- 
ate vista  of  shirt  front  adorned  his  heavy  frame.  About  his 
shoulders,  as  a  protection  from  the  inclement  weather,  hung  a 
yellow  oilskin  coat.  His  face  and  beard  dripped  moisture 
and  his  bushy  hair  shone  with  oil  and  trickling  rivulets  of 
rain.  He  came  forward  and  saluted  Susie  with  a  quick  sen- 
tence, then  turned  toward  the  door  of  an  adjacent  bar.  Here 
he  engaged  a  room  and  ordered  refreshments.  They  stood  in 
a  circle  about  the  small  table  and  Saunderson  produced  a 
bundle  of  papers. 

"I  brought  them  with  me  as  promised.  Look  at  them: 
bill  o'  sale,  receipt,  George  Sutcliffe's  paper  given  to  me  when 
he  had  the  money,  int'rest  papers — all  square  an'  regular. 
Turn  them  over,  Susie;  turn  them  over  an'  see  if  they  are 
right." 

She  examined  them  with  trembling  fingers.  They  were  her 
purchase  money;  the  price  of  her  father's  liberty;  the  price  of  her 
beauty.  In  a  few  hours  she  would  have  redeemed  them.  She 
folded  them  slowly  and  handed  them  to  her  uncle. 


23*  THE  ISSUE 

"Yes,"  she  answered.  "They  are  what  you  promised: 
hadn't  we  better  go  ?  " 

Saunderson  moved  over  and  took  her  hand.  "You'll  give 
me  better  thanks  than  that,  Susie?"  he  whispered,  drawing 
her  to  him.  She  submitted  passively  to  his  caresses,  but  the 
power  of  the  man's  arms  frightened  her.  She  drew  back. 
Saunderson  did  not  appear  to  notice  the  action.  He  was 
flushed.  The  vein  in  his  forehead  throbbed  noticeably.  So 
they  passed  over  to  the  registry  office,  and  in  fifteen  minutes 
Susie  emerged,  a  bride  of  nineteen,  leaning  on  the  arm  of 
a  man  whose  years  outnumbered  hers  by  more  than  two  to 
one. 

Saunderson  moved  briskly  down  to  the  trap  with  the  air  of  one 
on  whom  the  world  smiled.  His  eyes  twinkled  as  he  made 
ready  to  mount. 

"Now,"  he  said,  "If  Mr.  Surridge  will  favour  us  with  his 
company,  he'll  drive  us  down  to  the  pier.  I  want  you  to  look 
at  the  schooner — you've  not  seen  her  yet,  Susie.  I  would  like 
to  show  her." 

Surridge  discovered  no  enthusiasm  in  the  matter.  He  was 
ill  at  ease  and  had  no  wish  to  examine  the  beauties  of  the  Blue- 
bell; but  he  desired  to  keep  within  reach  of  Susie,  and  consented. 
They  drove  in  silence  to  the  pier.  Here  Saunderson  alighted 
and  taking  the  girl  in  his  arms,  lifted  her  to  the  pavement  and 
hailed  a  boat  which  seemed  to  have  been  waiting  his  orders. 
His  voice  rang  with  pride. ,' 

"Now,  my  sons,"  he  cried  "up  alongside  wiv  her.  Look 
slippy.  It's  almost  high  water.  This  way,  Susie — hold  on  to 
me — come  on.  Uncle,  there's  a  boy  lookin'  after  the  horse. 
This  way — this  way." 

In  ten  minutes  they  were  standing  on  board  the  schooner 
and  Tom  was  staring  at  the  flapping  canvas.  Presently  he 


TOM'S  DEFENCE  233 

approached  Saunderson  with  a  question  which  had  gradually 
assumed  shape: 

"  What's  them  things  bangin'  for  ?  Why  don't  you  tie  'em  up  ?" 

The  skipper  replied  with  a  grim  touch  of  humour:  "  Because 
we're  goin'  to  use  'em."  Then  in  a  shout  to  the  men  forward: 
"Heave  short  there!" 

Susie  drew  near.  She  understood  by  the  orders  and  the 
noise  forward,  what  was  impending,  and  dared  hope  for  further 
respite.  "You  are  sailing,  then,"  she  whispered.  "I  didn't 
know;  but,  you  will  put  us  ashore  first — you  will  give  me  time 
to  get  my  things.  It  has  been  so  hurried  I  could  not  bring  them 
with  me." 

Saunderson  caught  her  in  his  arms.  "Never  you  mind 
about  your  things,"  he  laughed,  "we're  goin'  where  there's 
things  in  plenty — an'  the  money  to  buy  them  is  in  my  pocket." 

Surridge  turned  on  him  with  a  flash:  "It's  not  honest 
work.  It's  a  cruel  business;  it's  kidnappin' — that's  what  it  is. 
Why,  if  I'd  known  what  you  were  leadin'  me  to,  I'd  not  have 
come.  I'd  have  seen  the  lass  dead  first."  He  shouted  the 
words  as  he  danced  on  the  deck,  snapping  his  fingers  hi  Saun- 
derson's  face,  but  the  big  man  only  laughed. 

"Don't  you  make  a  song  about  nothin'.  Susie's  my  wife, 
not  yours,"  he  cried. 

Susie  slipped  over  and  laid  her  hand  on  Tom's  arm.  "Never 
mind  me,"  she  faltered,  "it's  only  a  little  sooner  than — I 
thought.  Leave  us:  I  am  quite  safe  with  Jim." 

Tom  Surridge  pushed  her  back.  "You  hold  your  tongue!" 
he  cried.  "I'm  not  going  ashore  without  you — I'll  see  him  to 

— to "  He  turned  to  Saunderson,  shouting:  "You're 

a  big  chap — an'  I'm  a  little  un.  But  I  don't  stand  by  an'  see 
this.  Let  Susie  come  with  me — let  her  come  an'  get  her 
things." 


234 


THE  ISSUE 


"I'll  see  you  in  flames  first." 

"That  settles  it." 

As  Surridge  said  this  he  darted  straight  at  his  big  opponent 
and  aimed  a  blow  at  his  head.  Saunderson  saw  him  coming 
and  caught  him  under  the  ear  before  he  could  reach. 

"Stand  back,  fool!"  he  shouted  savagely;  "d'ye  think  I'm 
to  be  stopped  by  a  whipper-snapper  like  you?  Lumme!  I 
could  kill  you." 

Surridge  was  lifted  off  his  feet  by  the  blow.  He  rolled 
across  the  deck  half -stunned  and  leaned  against  the  rigging; 
but  in  a  moment  he  returned  to  the  encounter.  He  shouted 
aloud  his  contempt. 

"Whipper-snapper  I  may  be — fool  I  may  be;  but,  by  law! 
I  ain't  a  coward."  He  snatched  an  iron  belaying  pin  from  the 
rail.  "If  arms  can't  do  it,"  he  asserted,  "maybe  this  here 
poker  can." 

He  was  under  Saunderson's  guard  before  the  skipper  realised 
what  was  to  be  the  new  mode  of  attack.  "On  the  shins  is  a 
a  good  place  for  niggers! "  he  yelled,  dancing  briskly  to  and  fro; 
"I  shouldn't  wonder  if  it's  the  best  for  you!"  Two  smart 
blows  on  the  legs  followed,  then  Saunderson  landed  a  heavy 
thump  on  the  little  man's  head. 

"O  law!"  he  gasped,  jumping  about  and  watching  his 
opportunity  to  reach  the  skipper's  arm,  "O  law!  my  crust  is 
about  as  hard  as  the  old  woman's  pies.  O  law!  that  ain't 
nothin'.  How's  that,  eh,  Guv'nur  ? "  He  brought  the  belay- 
ing pin  down  with  crushing  force,  and  Saunderson  leaped  back 
with  a  yell  of  pain.  His  arm  dropped  limp  at  his  side.  He 
stood  feeling  it,  and  Surridge  paused  in  speechless  concern. 
"You've  got  it,"  he  remarked  at  length.  "If  this  here  poker 
ain't  a  beauty,  I  don't  know.  Come  on,  Susie."  He  was 
bleeding  profusely  from  the  blows  he  had  received,  but  appeared 


TOM'S  DEFENCE  235 

quite  unconscious  of  his  hurts.  He  was  entirely  occupied  with 
the  result  of  his  strategy. 

Saunderson's  answer  was  terrible.  One  moment  he  danced 
in  an  agony  of  pain,  then  his  eyes  blazed.  "It's  broke!"  he 
yelled,  and  a  torrent  of  oaths  fell.  Then  :  "  Take  that  ! 
Gawd!  take  that,"  he  shouted,  and  Surridge  lay  at  his  feet 
insensible. 

He  turned  to  the  crew  with  an  angry  roar:  "Avast  heav'in! 
Lay  aft  here  an'  get  this  drunken  fool  ashore!  Get  him  ashore 
an'  look  slippy  back.  We're  losin'  the  tide — we're  losin'  the 
tide." 

The  men  knew  Saunderson.  They  knew  his  strength,  his 
violence  if  opposed,  and  consulting  their  own  personal  safety, 
did  his  bidding  with  the  alacrity  born  of  fear.  Thus,  in  less 
than  half  an  hour,  the  Bluebell  was  slipping  quietly  down 
Reach;  moving  amidst  the  tangled  traffic  under  the  eye  of  a 
skipper  half  drunk  with  pain  and  mortification;  while  Susie,  a 
wife  of  scarcely  an  hour's  standing,  lay  on  the  cabin  settee,  too 
dazed  to  know  what  was  happening. 

It  was  eloquent  of  the  persistence,  the  dogged  and  bull-like 
obstinacy  of  this  man,  that  although  he  was  undoubtedly  suf- 
fering intensely,  he  had  no  thought  of  then  goingashore  to  see  a 
doctor.  To  do  so  meant  detention;  the  possible  flight  of  Susie; 
any  one  of  the  many  dangers  he  saw  on  the  horizon  of  his  fears. 
Undrilled,  undisciplined,  with  the  tags  and  headlines  of  modern 
newspapers  to  guide  him;  without  self-control,  without  creed, 
without  any  of  the  eld  restraining  influences ;  with  wits  sharpened 
by  a  staccato  educational  system  and  the  voices  of  highly  placed 
democrats  as  his  tutors,  he  perceived  only  the  necessity  for 
movement ;  for  a  resolute  persistence  in  the  plan  he  had  mapped 
out  for  his  future.  Nothing  else  would  avail  him.  The 
Bluebell  must  sail.  She  must  leave  Riverton  for  many  reasons. 


236  THE  ISSUE 

Susie  was  his  wife.  Therefore  he  must  sail.  Bye  and  bye, 
he  told  himself,  he  would  be  able  to  land  somewhere — mean- 
while he  must  "grin  and  bear  it."  He  had  accomplished 
more  difficult  tasks  in  his  life.  He  would  accomplish  this. 

A  few  miles  below  Riverton  stands  one  of  the  forts  in  the 
second  line  of  Thames  defence.  A  low  granite  circle,  with 
grim,  iron-studded  masks,  conceals  the  guns  and  men.  A 
signal-man  stood  on  the  verge  of  the  battery  waving  flags. 
Some  of  the  garrison  were  out  with  their  launch,  laying  mines. 
But  Saunderson  did  not  see  her;  he  was  occupied  with  the 
pressing  details  of  his  position,  until  a  voice  rang  out  close 
under  the  Bluebell's  bows:  "Hard  a-starboard!  hard  over. 
Where  the  devil  are  you  going?"  Then  as  he  glanced  under 
the  mainsail,  he  discovered  the  uniforms  of  the  R.  E's,  and 
heard  the  officer  shout,  "Full  speed  astern,  Quartermaster — 
both  engines." 

Saunderson  jammed  his  wheel  over  and  by  the  aid  of  the 
double  evolution,  the  schooner  scraped  past  without  mishap. 
He  crept  down  to  leeward  and  hailed  the  officer  in  extenuation: 

"I'm  fair  dizzy  wiv  pain,  sir.    I've  broke  my  arm." 

' '  Broken  your  arm,  eh  ?  Then  get  ashore  and  see  the  Medico, 
You  are  dangerous." 

"At  the  battery,  sir?" 

"Aye." 

"Right,  sir — an'  thankee."  He  turned  to  the  men,  address- 
ing them  in  a  series  of  shouts.  "Let  your  fore  yard  run  sharp 
up,  Mate.  Haul  in  on  your  port  braces.  Down  jib  an'  light 
stay-s'ls.  Stand  by  to  down  kellick." 

Susie  was  seated  in  the  cabin,  listlessly  cognisant  of  the 
ship-board  turmoil,  until  the  sound  of  running  halliards  and 
the  rush  of  the  cable  awoke  her.  Then  in  a  moment  she  moved 
to  the  companion-way  and  stood  looking  about. 


TOM'S  DEFENCE  237 

The  anchor  was  down.  The  wind  flattened  the  sails  against 
the  masts.  They  clung  black  and  rigid  agaidst  the  spars  and 
rigging,  holding  the  vessel  aslant  with  her  head  pointed  toward 
the  Essex  shore.  The  Mate,  with  another,  was  holding  a  boat 
alongside  and  Saunderson  stood  on  the  rail  near  the  short  ladder. 
He  caught  Susie's  glance  and  cried  out  cheerily  that  he  was 
going  ashore  to  see  a  doctor  and  would  be  back  again  in  no  tune. 
Five  minutes  later  the  splash  of  oars  told  her  they  were  gone. 

She  crept  to  the  side  and  stood  watching  the  vanishing  boat. 
In  the  distance  were  other  boats.  Riverton  loomed  in  a  yellow 
and  red  haze,  far  on  the  horizon.  A  boy  leaned  over  the  bul- 
wark forward.  He  was  whistling  "The  Little  Alabama  Coon." 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  SEA-WALL 

THE  news  of  Susie's  marriage  was  echoed  in  Abbeyville 
within  an  hour  of  the  Bluebell's  departure.  Mrs.  Crow 
had  been  in  Riverton  on  a  shopping  expedition  and  the  lack  of 
material  for  gossip  had  brought  her  into  the  waterside  streets, 
where  she  espied  the  tokens  of  a  melee  outside  a  public  house 
near  the  entrance  to  the  pier. 

This  was  altogether  too  obvious  a  chance  of  gaining  know- 
ledge of  other  people's  affairs  to  be  missed.  She  stepped 
within  and  was  speedily  put  in  possession  of  the  facts  by  the 
battered  Surridge,  who  told  her  what  had  happened  and  begged 
her  to  see  her  husband. 

Mrs.  Crow  lost  no  time.  She  returned  at  once  to  the  village 
and  watered  the  streets  with  the  news.  Tony  paused  in  the 
midst  of  his  work  and  gazed  at  his  wife  who  presently  stood 
before  him  hot  and  flustered. 

" Socks! "  he  cried.     "  Wha  telled  ye ? " 

"Tom  Surridge  hisself.  He's  beat  so'thin'  cruel — same 
a'most  as  if  he'd  bin  hit  wi  a  bloomin  engine." 

"Gotten  it  bad  then,  Missis?    Puir  Tammas!    Teddy— 
gude  lad,  drap  t'tongs;  shut  oot  t'fire.     Ah'm  finishet  fer  t'day." 

He  stood  a  moment  in  silence,  struggling  to  think  while 
the  boy  babbled  incoherently  the  details  of  his  work. 

"  Wheer's  Sutcliffe  ?"  he  questioned  at  length.  "  Dost  knaw 
whither  Tantalus  has  come  home?" 

"Nay;  she's  at  sea,  Tony." 

238 


THE  SEA-WALL  239 

"Does  t'owd  man  knaw  Susie's  wed  t'yon  sluckit  skeeper?" 

"No;  he  don't  know  no  more  than  Adam." 

"Then  ah'm  dommed  if  ah'm  not  left  t'fix  it  masen." 

With  this  enigmatical  rejoinder  he  closed  and  locked  the 
smithy  door  and  accompanied  by  his  wife  went  home  to  think  it 
out.  This  operation  was  difficult  of  accomplishment.  Any- 
thing in  the  form  of  mental  argument  was  impossible  with  Tony 
Crow — he  required  assistance  always.  Indeed  he  would  rather, 
any  time,  manipulate  half  a  ton  of  red-hot  metal,  than  consider 
for  a  dozen  minutes.  He  gave  voice  to  his  ideas  after  cau- 
tiously shutting  the  door. 

"When  ah  see  Sutcliffe  last,  he  said  to  me,  'Tony,'  he  says 
'there's  trouble  in  the  wind — thou'lt  look  after  t'lass  whiles  I'm 
awa.'  An'  I  promiset.  Noo  she's  wed — Missis,  what  will  I 
beat?" 

"It's  a  pecurious  business,  Tony — all  through  it  is,"  Mrs. 
Crow  returned  sententiously ;  "him  hav'in  a  shadda  an'  all." 

The  blacksmith  sprang  round  with  sudden  energy:  "Shadda, 
wumman!  What  shadda?  Have  ah  been  cacklin'  in  ma 
sleep,  or  wha  telled  ye  of  me  suspeecions  ?" 

"La!  how  you  do  jump  down  a  person's  throat.  I  don't 
know  what  you're  drivin'  at.  Everybody  knows  what  I  speak 
of — there's  no  sort  of  secret  about  it.  What  do  you  mean — 
you  an'  your  suspicions?" 

Tony  drew  his  hand  across  his  forehead.  He  stared  at  his 
wife  with  dull  eyes.  "Socks!  is  thot  aa'?"  he  exclaimed,  then 
added  after  a  short  pause.  "Noo,  lissen.  Ah'm  goin'  in 
t'  Riverton  t'  find  Susie  an'  t'find  summat  else.  Nay,  Missis 
ah'm  sayin'  no  more,  for  ah  don't  want  t'village  abaht  ma  heels. 
Just  you  remember  what  ah  said — ah'm  goin'  t'Riverton  t'find 
Susie." 

He  had  divested  himself  of  his  grimy  apron  and  had  donned 


240  THE  ISSUE 

a  less  picturesque  jacket;  then,  discovering  there  was  sufficient 
time  to  catch  a  train,  set  off  without  more  ado  and  in  less  than 
an  hour  was  standing  on  the  sea-wall  below  the  town. 

He  had  already  interviewed  the  loungers  who  congregate 
about  the  piers  at  the  waterside,  and  had  tested  the  truth  of  the 
report.  The  Tantalus  had  not  arrived,  might  not  arrive  for 
days,  and  the  Bluebell  had  spread  her  wings  and  sailed  soon 
after  high  water.  He  could  do  nothing  as  far  as  Susie  was  con- 
cerned. Had  he  been  a  man  to  whom  money  is  no  object, 
he  might  have  chartered  a  tug  and  followed;  but  Tony  Crow's 
resources  were  strictly  meagre.  He  paid  for  his  information 
in  glasses  of  "four  ale"  and  came  down  the  sea-wall  until  he 
arrived  at  the  place  of  Dunscombe's  murder.  Here  he  halted 
and  commenced  again  to  search  for  that  trifle  which  hitherto 
he  had  not  been  able  to  find.  Yet  this  was  the  third  occasion 
on  which  he  had  been,  as  he  termed  it,  "fossikin5  abaht  t'deetch 
seekin'  eevidence." 

He  stood  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  scene  of  Dunscombe's 
murder.  The  police  had  searched  it.  Many  unofficial  persons 
had  searched  it,  scrambling  about  the  banks,  peering  into  the 
rushes,  but  nothing  had  transpired.  Tony's  heresy  as  to  the 
value  of  police  investigation  was  exemplified  by  his  persistence. 
They  were  all  "silly,  feckless  loons,"  in  his  estimation.  The 
fact  that  they  had  issued  a  warrant  for  Elliott's  arrest  was 
sufficient  proof,  in  his  mind,  of  their  arrant  stupidity.  He  be- 
lieved in  none  of  their  theories,  because  they  were  all  bound 
in  one  terse  sentence — Jack  Elliott. 

Tony  knew  that  Elliott  had  not  done  this  thing.  He  knew 
it  vaguely,  as  a  dog  knows  it  will  get  some  meat  if  it  sits  and 
begs;  but  the  faculty  of  reason  was  as  conspicuously  absent  in 
the  one  case  as  in  the  other.  Hence  he  had  been  "fossiking," 
and,  so  far,  had  gained  no  information. 


THE  SEA-WALL  241 

He  groaned  sorrowfully  as  he  climbed  again  to  the  sea-wall. 
His  fruitless  attempt  to  rescue  Susie  stung  him.  He  knew  the 
old  man  so  well;  knew  that  he  trusted  him,  and  would  have 
walked  into  any  species  of  danger  to  do  the  girl  a  service; 
for  he,  in  common  with  many  others,  was  aware  of  the  trouble 
that  had  crept  into  Sutcliffe's  life  since  his  second  marriage, 
and  of  the  old  man's  unutterable  folly  in  borrowing  of  Saunder- 
son  to  meet  his  wife's  extravagance.  He  knew,  too,  of  Saunder- 
son's  fierce  love  for  the  girl,  and  how  it  had  run  unchecked  by 
the  fact  that  she  was  affianced  to  Elliott. 

He  recollected  his  meeting  with  Susie  that  night  in  the  park; 
how  queerly  she  had  spoken;  how  unlike  she  had  been  to  the 
blithe  lassie  he  had  known  for  years.  He  cursed  his  glib  tongue 
for  having  given  her  information  of  Saunderson's  whereabouts. 
He  might  have  known  that  trouble  would  come  of  it;  for 
he  knew  Saunderson  as  few  others  in  that  circle  knew  him. 

He  stood  a  moment  resting  on  a  curious  implement,  a  self- 
wrought  tool  which  he  had  used  in  his  fruitless  "  fossiking," 
when  a  short  laugh  brought  him  suddenly  to  attention.  A  tall, 
dark-eyed  woman,  with  a  mop  of  frowsy,  straw-coloured  hair, 
stood  on  the  river  side  of  the  embankment,  watching  him.  She 
climbed  the  pathway  and  spoke  with  a  quiet  air  of  conscious 
superiority. 

"  You  are  Mr.  Crow,  the  Abbeyville  blacksmith,"  she  said. 
"The  people  call  you  Tony  Crow — and  they  say  you  are  a  man 
who  wouldn't  hurt  a  fly." 

The  blacksmith  vstared;  a  twinkle  came  into  his  small  eyes 
as  he  took  in  the  situation.  "Ah'm  aal  ye  say,  Missis — except 
thot  ah  don't  knaw  abaht  t'flee  if  ah  coomed  under  ma  hammer." 

"And  in  that  case,  Mr.  Crow?"  she  laughed. 

"In  thot  case — ah  doot  it  would  be  smashet." 

Again  the  woman  laughed;  then  looking  him  straight  in  the 


242  THE  ISSUE 

face  she  said:  "You  are  certainly  explicit,  for  a  man.  Cha! 
why  do  I  waste  time.  You  know  the  Bluebell — you  know 
Saunderson:  perhaps  you  can  tell  me  why  the  Bluebell  is 
anchored  down  yonder,  by  the  fort." 

Tony  stared  down  the  Reach,  following  the  woman's  finger. 
He  looked  up  again;  she  no  longer  smiled,  but  watched  him 
with  a  settled  frown.  He  stammered:  "T'  Bluebell  anchored? 
Nay,  it  seems  t'me,  ye  knaw  more  abaht  it  than  ah  do  masen. 
Maybe  ye  knaw  Susie,  an'  t'owd  man  Sutcliff  e ;  maybe  if  ye  telled 
me  a  sma'  bit  abaht  your'sen,  ah  could  be  more  expleecit." 

She  faced  him  with  an  imploring  gesture:  "If  you  will  answer 
my  question,  and  aid  me  in  discovering  what  I  have  so  long 
missed,  I  will  tell  you  who  I  am." 

"Nay,  fair  play's  a  jewel.  Ah'm  clean  oot  o'  t'runnin'. 
Maybe  ye'll  be  askin'  me  why  Susie  took  oop  wi'  yon  sluckit 
skeeper — why  Tammas  Surritch  came  hame  wi  a  bashet  eye — 
why " 

The  woman  turned  on  him  with  a  sharp  question:  "What 
skipper?" 

"Skeeper  o'  I1  Bluebell — Saundisson " 

"Saunderson!    Susie!    What  do  you  mean ?" 

Tony  relapsed  into  silence.  He  was  flabbergasted;  his  wits 
were  a  chaos.  "What  for  should  ah  tell  ye?"  he  ques- 
tioned. 

"Oh!  you  will,  you  will."  The  woman  broke  into  a  wail  of 
anguish;  she  held  out  her  hands  begging  him  to  speak.  "See! 
it  is  most  important  that  I  should  know.  Cha !  it  is  important 
also  for  this — this  girl — Susie,  as  you  call  her.  See!  I  have 
traced  him  here.  Months  ago  I  should  have  found  him,  but  a 
man  I  met  told  me  he  had  gone  north,  to  the  Tyne,  and  I  have 
wasted  time  and  money  trying  to  find  him  there.  Now  I  come 
back  and  I  hear  he  has  sailed.  I  have  found  out  several  things 


THE  SEA-WALL  243 

about  him;  but  he  has  sailed — and  I  must  wait.  But  he  shall 
not  go  free;  he  is  mine — he  shall  not  go  free! " 

Tony  was  aghast  at  the  sudden  transition;  he  waited  in  some 
trepidation,  then  broke  out;  "Steady,  Missis!  There's  so'thin' 
adreeft — ah  can  see  thot  plain.  Maybe  if  ye  would  begin  at  the 
beginnin'  an'  go  on,  loike,  we  would  come  at  summat." 

"Begin  at  the  beginning!  Man,  that  would  take  a  week. 
Tell  me,  what  is  this  Susie — to  Saunderson  ?  " 

"His  wife  since  noon." 

"His  wife.     I  am  his  wife." 

Tony  leaped  forward  hoarse  with  excitement.  "Well  ah'm 
dommed,"  he  shouted.  "Then  it's  beegamy." 

Mrs.  Saunderson  laughed  viciously.  "May  she  have  as 
nice  a  time  as  I  had,"  she  returned. 

"  Nay  Missis,  thot's  not  pretty  talk.  Ye  don't  mean  it.  It's 
jealously  thot  makes  ye  talk  like  thot.  T'lass  is  as  pure  as  the 
angels — pure  as  the  hooly  angels,  get  t'next  fra  where  yew 
will." 

But  she  took  no  heed;  she  was  moving  to  and  fro  stamping 
her  feet  and  gesticulating  as  the  words  fell  from  her  lips. 

"Why  should  I  interfere?  Have  I  not  suffered  enough? 
Have  I  not  borne  enough  ?  Did  he  treat  me  kindly  ?  Did  his 
love  last  ?  His  love !  God  forgive  me  for  so  degrading  the  word. 
Love?  Passion,  blind,  overwhelming,  unreasoning  passion. 
He  tired  of  me  quickly — be  sure  of  that.  And  now  he  has  won 
this  Susie  of  yours,  you  would  have  me  interfere.  I  can't 
interfere.  I  won't — why  should  I  ?  I  won't,  and  why  should 
I?" 

"Steady,  Missis '."Tony  cried  again.  "Think  it  oot.  Thot's 
no  your'sen  thot's  talkin' — thot's " 

She  interrupted  with  a  movement  of  disdain.  "Man,  don't 
I  know  him?  Am  I  not  his  wife?  Psha!  seven  years  ago  I 


*44  THE  ISSUE 

knew  him.  I  was  Lilly  Barker  then,  and  I  married  him  down 
in  dear  old  Plymouth.  He  deserted  me  when  my  child  was 
born.  I  have  not  seen  him  since ;  but  recently  my  father  died  and 
left  me  some  money,  so  I  made  up  my  mind  to  find  him  .  .  . 
for  he  is  my  husband,  you  see,  and  I  thought  to  get  him  to  take 
me  back — for  I  loved  him.  Money  sometimes  helps  as  you 
know;  but  now  I  find  him  with  another  love — a  chit  of  a  girl. 
Well,  let  him  tire  of  her  as  he  tired  of  me;  let  him  break  her 
freshness,  as  he  has  broken  mine — then,  perhaps  he  may  be  less 
unwilling  to  come  back  to  the  wife  he  deserted — and  to  her 
money." 

Tony  held  up  his  hand  begging  for  consideration:  "Steady, 
Missis,"  he  cried;  "ye've  got  it  straight — ah  can  see  thot.  But, 
suppose  t'lass  don't  love  your  husband.  Suppose  she's  stole 
fra  her  man,  an'  wed  against  her  will.  Suppose  aal  this, 
Missis — an'  than,  dom  ma  een,  ye'll  step  in  wi  Tony  an'  save 
her?" 

"Explain — explain.    I  don't  understand,"  she  cried. 

"Eexplain!  Eigh!  thot's  easy.  We're  coomin'  to  it — noo 
we're  beginnin'  t'fetch  Saundisson's  sluckit  neck  under  ma 
hammer.  See — Susie  was  t'have  been  wed  three  months  agone; 
but  Saundisson  draws  his  line  across  t'bargain.  Dunscombe 
was  murdered — ye  may  have  heard  oo't.  Ye  did — gude;  then 
Susie's  man  is  blamet — an'  he  runs  like  a  foo',  an'  Saundisson 
puts  t'bums  in  Sutcliffe's  house  at  Abbeyville.  Sutcliffe  is 
t'lass's  father.  T'save  him  Susie  promised  t'wed  Saundisson. 
She  was  marriet  t'day  an'  t'papers  t'owd  man  gave  when  he 
borrowit  o'  Saundisson  were  handed  to  puir  Tammas.  Thot's 
how  it  stands — an'  ah'm  goin'  dahn  t'fetch  t'lass  back  hame  fra 
t' Bluebell." 

A  great  deal  of  this  speech  was  incomprehensible  to  the 
woman  in  her  excited  condition.  Jealousy,  too,  struggled 


THE  SEA-WALL  445 

hard  for  supremacy.  She  faced  him  with  thin,  unbelieving 
lips:  "  Will  you  swear  she  never,  never  angled  for  him  or  made 
love  to  him  ?  Will  you  swear  it  ?  " 

"Nay,  Missis.  It's  no  case  for  swearin'.  There's  Tony 
Crow's  word — take  it  or  leave  it." 

"I  prefer  not  to  believe  it;  it  is  impossible." 

"Nay,  there's  nowt  impossible." 

"Then  I  cannot  help  you,  if  you  like  that  better,"  she  returned 
with  an  ugly  laugh. 

Tony  moved  toward  the  path,  preparing  to  go:  "Noo, 
we're  coomin'  at  it — noo  there's  no  banes  aboot  it;  an',  if  ye've 
no  objection,  Missis,  ah'll  just  say  how  yon  deceession  o'  yours 
looks  t'me.  It's  puir  selfishness,  an'  obstreperousness;  nothin' 
else,  foreby  a  smaa'  touch  o'  jealousy.  An'  ah  say  thot  the 
wumman  thot  will  stand  by,  an'  see  a  lass  taen  t'her  death,  is  na 
wumman  but  a  child — an'  she  should  be  treated  loike  a  child 
wi'a  simple  spankin' — an'  thot,  Missis,  is  more  Yerkshire." 

He  turned  on  his  heel  without  further  ado  and  walked  swiftly 
down  the  sea-wall  to  the  Garter  Pier.  Here  he  paused  a 
moment  and  glanced  round  as  though  he  still  expected  the 
woman  to  be  following.  But  she  remained  where  he  had  left 
her;  silhouetted  boldly  against  the  skyline.  Tony  concluded 
that  she  intended  to  abide  by  her  decision,  and  having  hailed  a 
boat  and  bargained  for  speed,  he  clambered  into  the  stern  sheets 
and  started  at  once  for  the  Bluebell. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  SLUCKIT-SASSER 

FROM  the  Garter  Pier  to  the  fort  off  which  the  Bluebell 
lay  is  a  distance  of  three  miles;  and,  viewed  in  the 
light  of  Tony's  horror  of  the  water,  it  was  no  easy 
task  he  had  set  himself.  His  education  at  the  forge  of  a  York- 
shire smithy  had  not  given  him  the  faculty  of  balance  necessary 
for  jumping  about  in  rowing  boats.  In  this  matter  his  feelings 
were  something  akin  to  those  of  "puir  Tammas,"  they  differed 
only  in  the  form.  Surridge  was  concerned  chiefly  with  the 
feckless  blundering  which  resulted  so  often  in  collisions;  Tony, 
with  the  instability  of  everything  afloat,  and  the  danger  he  saw 
of  his  own  great  height  tempting  a  boat  to  turn  turtle. 

Hence  he  sat  crouched  low  in  the  shallow  wherry  and  kept  a 
nervous  and  constant  watch  from  beneath  his  drawn-down  cap 
on  every  babbling  wavelet  crossing  their  track.  Tony  Crow 
seated  in  a  boat  in  mortal  fear  of  being  capsized,  and  Tony 
Crow  holding  a  kicking  horse  to  be  shod  outside  the  smithy 
doors,  were  distinctly  separate  individuals. 

But  despite  his  fears,  they  flashed  rapidly  down  the  tide  and 
"in  a  quarter  less  than  no  time,"  as  he  observed  afterwards, 
they  were  close  to  the  anchored  vessel.  She  lay  head  to  wind, 
tugging  restlessly  at  her  cable,  her  black  sails  whanging  in  the 
breeze. 

Arrived  alongside,  Tony  grasped  one  of  the  shrouds  and 
clambered  to  his  feet.  His  head  was  level  with  the  rail.  He 
appeared  curiously  uncertain  how  to  proceed.  Then  the  sight 

246 


THE  SLUCKIT-SASSER  247 

of  Susie  hurrying  to  meet  him,  brought  him  up  the  side  with  the 
quaint  action  of  a  big  retriever,  and  as  though  he  feared  his 
weight  would  bring  the  schooner  over.  He  landed  on  deck  and 
wiped  the  perspiration  from  his  forehead. 

"Socks!"  he  exclaimed;  "ah  would  not  be  a  sailor-man,  not 
for  dumps.  Ah  loike  summat  undah  ma  feet  thot  will-na  go 
ricketty-rock — for  aal  the  world  loike  a  babby's  cradle.  Where's 
Saundisson?" 

Susie  stood  before  him  in  obvious  wonderment.  She  cried 
out  nervously;  "What  is  it,  Tony?  Why  are  you  here  ?  What 
do  you  want  with  my  husband  ?  " 

Tony  gasped  for  breath.  "He's  no  your  husband,  lass," 
he  blurted,  and  again  mopped  his  face. 

The  girl  stared.  She  remained  a  moment  without  speech, 
then,  tapping  with  her  foot  on  the  deck:  "What  do  you  mean ? 
tell  me  what  you  mean?" 

"What  do't  sound  loike,  lass?" 

"Tony,  Tony!"  she  reiterated  sharply;  "tell  me  what  you 
mean,  I — I  have  a  right  to  know."  Again  the  foot  stamping 
angrily  on  the  planks. 

The  blacksmith  watched  her  with  a  miserable  attempt  at 
jocularity.  "Eigh!  t'  cur'us  ways  o'  wimmen,"  he  cried. 
"T'hear  'em  talk,  wi'  tears  in  their  een — tears  at  their  heart — 
an'  a  life  o'  tears  before  them — t'hear  'em  struggle  in  t'meshes, 
strivin'  t'defend  their  man,  when  there's  just  no  defence  at  aa! 
Eigh!  it's  just  peetifu' — peetifu'."  The  girl  writhed  under  the 
sting  of  his  words  and  he  went  on  more  slowly:  "Ah  coomed 
down  here  in  yon  sluckit-sasser  [boat]  t'  tell  ye  what  ah've 
heard — an'  t'see  your  man.  Ah  telled  ye,  Susie,  plain  Yerk- 
shire,  Saundisson  is  no  your  husband.  An'  ah  thowt  maybe 
ye'd  got  a  bit  love  left  fer  yon  vanishet  chap  o'  yours — Jack, 
Susie.  Dom  ma  een!  There!  Sho!" 


248  THE  ISSUE 

Tony  Crow  started  across  the  deck  in  great  perturbation; 
for  Susie  was  weeping  bitterly,  and  Tony  had  that  in  his  heart 
which  comes  to  strong  men  in  place  of  tears,  and  wanted  space 
wherein  to  vent  it. 

The  sound  of  approaching  oars  struck  them  as  they  stood 
thus.  Susie  dried  her  eyes  and  crossed  to  where  the  black- 
smith leaned  against  the  fiferail.  "I  hate  Saunderson,"  she 
cried  under  her  breath;  and  again,  "I  hate  him." 

"Socks!    Thot's  ma  Susie,  noo." 

"And  I  love  Jack.     Oh,  Tony,  can't  you  understand?" 

"Ah  can — ah  can,"  He  caught  her  hand,  wringing  it  in 
triumph.  "Leave  it  t'  me.  Yon's  Saundisson  comin' — do 
as  ah  bid  you  when  t'time  comes." 

Silence  ensued.  In  the  silence  a  boat  drew  alongside  and 
Saunderson's  head  appeared  above  the  gangway.  He  saw  the 
blacksmith  instantly  and  his  face  grew  livid.  His  arm  was  in 
splints,  hanging  from  his  neck  in  a  sling.  He  crossed  the  deck 
to  meet  them,  growling  out:  "You'd  best  get  ashore.  I've 
lost  enough  time  wiv  one  sort  o'  foolin'  an'  another — you'd 
best  leave." 

"Ah've  no  detained  ye,  Cap'n,"  Tony  returned  with  studied 
politeness.  "Ah  want  just  a  sma'  bit  talk  wiv  ye,  then  ah'm 
done." 

Saunderson  halted  beside  them,  striving  ineffectually  to 
read  their  faces. 

"Well,"  he  suggested,  "get  a  long  wiv  it.  I'm  losing  the 
tide." 

"  Ye've  marriet  Susie  the  morn?" 

"I  have — an'  got  my  arm  broke  since." 

"  Thot's  bad.     Maybe  ye  telled  her  you  were  wed  before  ?  " 

Saunderson  floundered  with  words.  He  plucked  at  his 
neckerchief  with  a  hand  that  twitched,  facing  them,  staring  into 


THE  SLUCKIT-SASSER 


249 


their  eyes,  frowning — miserably  incompetent  as  an  actor.  He 
shouted  fiercely:  "What  in  flames  d'ye  mean?  What  is  it  to 
you  if  a  man  was  married  before — if  his  wife's  dead  ?  My  wife 
is  dead:  what  more  do  you  want?" 

"Your  wife  is  no  dead,  Jeames  Saundisson." 

"You  lie.     I  say  you  lie!"  he  reiterated. 

"Steady,  Cap'n.  Fer  a  corpse  ah  conseeder  her  weel  preser- 
vet." 

He  interjected  again:  "Lie!  lie!"  and  stood  to  listen. 

"Tall,  Cap'n.     Fluffity  hair,  summat  loike  straw  in  colour." 

Saunderson  struggled  vainly  with  speech;  he  stammered, 
but  Tony  Crow,  masterful  and  very  strong  in  the  possession  of 
facts,  continued  his  indictment. 

"Wumman  o'  abaht  thirty — more  or  less;  queer  bluey  een, 
wi  a  bit  sparkle  in  'em  when  she's  vexet." 

Still  no  reply  and  Saunderson  gazing  dully  at  Susie. 

"Met  her  up  by  t'deetch,  wheer  Dunscombe  coom  oot  wrong 
end  first.  Sittin'  in  t'grass,  watchin'  t'Bluebell — lookin'  fer 
her  husband — thot's  wheer  she  was,  Cap'n." 

The  skipper  made  an  attempt  at  bluster;  but  he  could  only 
repeat  in  a  thin  voice:  "I  say  it's  a  lie — a  lie  from  one  end  to 
another."  Then  with  sudden  violence:  "Lumme!  you 
shouldn't  stand  there  sayin'  what  you  are,  if  I  was  master  of  my 
second  arm.  Get  ashore.  I'm  losin'  the  tide." 

Tony  Crow  approached  speaking  with  grim  emphasis: 
"Ah'm  game  to  meet  ye,  Cap'n,  when  t'other  arm  is  in  its 
place ;  but,  whiles  you're  in  t'  shop,*  tongues  will  have  t'  do  dooty 
instead.  Yon  wumman's  your  wife — marriet  in  Plymouth 
seven  year  agone.  Name  o'  Leely — Leely  Barker." 

Saunderson  was  white  with  passion,  but  he  controlled  himself 
to  shout:  "Goon — goon." 

*Engineering  term  for  under  repairs. 


2so  THE  ISSUE 

"Deserted  six  year,  Cap'n;  treated  cruel;  deserted  wi  a  baby 
in  arms  an'  never  seen  since.  Dom  ma  een!  is  aa  t'yarn  a 
lee?" 

Saunderson  moved  his  lips  to  speak;  he  passed  his  hand 
across  his  face  and  found  it  wet.  He  stared  into  his  palm  and 
dried  it  on  his  coat.  Something  must  be  said;  something 
efficacious;  something  pertinent.  A  cry  fell  on  his  ears  and  he 
looked  up.  Susie  had  given  utterance  to  that  cry.  He  moved 
towards  her  holding  forth  his  hand;  intent  on  exculpation; 
intent  on  gaining  her  sympathy — yet  he  only  said:  "I  thought 
she  was  dead;  they  told  me  she  was  dead.  I  never  loved  her. 
Gawd  help  me!  I  never  loved  her.  Do  you  believe  me? 
Do  you  believe  me?" 

"I  don't  know  what  to  believe.     Oh!  it  is  horrible." 

Again  a  pause  while  Saunderson  gazed  with  intense  longing 
into  her  face  and  remembered  that  if  this  was  true,  the  end  of 
all  things  was  at  hand;  that  Susie  could  be  his  no  more. 

"Lass!"  he  cried  piteously,  "I  don't  believe  it.  I  have  the 
proof  of  her  death.  I  know  she  died.  Gawd  love  you,  will 
you  not  take  my  word  against — this — this " 

He  stumbled  in  his  speech  and  the  oath  died  in  his  throat, 
at  the  sight  of  her  mute  appeal. 

"Can  you  prove  it?"  she  cried  aloud.  She  looked  directly 
into  his  face,  waiting  in  tearless  misery  for  his  answer.  But 
the  answer  halted  and  Tony  Crow  broke  in  without  re- 
morse. 

"  Coom,"  he  cried.     "  Yonder  she  stands  t'speak  for  hersen." 

Saunderson  put  him  aside  with  a  motion  of  contempt. 
"Pish!  Seven  years  ago  I  married  Lilly  Barker.  But  she 
died — as  I'm  a  livin'  soul,  she  died." 

"Desertet,  Cap'n — wi'  a  babby  in  arms." 

"She's  dead!"  he  shouted  in  anger. 


THE  SLUCKIT-SASSER  251 

"A  matter  o'  deescription,  Cap'n;  but  it  don't  get  awa  wi  the 
livin'  wumman  on  t'  bank." 

Saunderson  moved  across  to  the  scuttle  and  covered  his  face 
with  one  hand.  He  was  weak  with  pain  and  dazed  by  the  rapid 
course  of  the  morning's  events.  He  had  won.  Some  hours 
ago,  he  had  won.  Susie  was  his  wife.  She  was  ready  at  last 
to  stay  with  him.  He  had  won — and  now,  in  the  hour  of  his 
triumph,  that  other  woman  whom  he  had  never  loved;  that 
woman,  draggle-tailed  and  with  miserable  eyes,  whom  he  be- 
lieved to  be  dead,  had  returned,  and  he  was No,  it  could 

not  be — it  could  not  be;  yet  the  news  bore  the  impress  of  truth. 
Truth!  Chks!  it  was — what  was  it?  He  looked  up  and 
caught  Susie's  tearful  glance.  The  sight  fevered  him  and 
again  he  sprang  to  his  feet  hoping  against  hope;  battling  with 
dread;  praying  for  respite. 

"Susie!  Susie!  you'll  not  take  sides  against  me.  You'll  stay 
by  me  now  an'  let  them  prove  their  words — you'll  not  make  a 
fool  of  me  before  my  hands.  Gawd  love  you,  I've  treated  you 
fair  an'  square.  I  know  nothin'  of  what  this  man  says.  I  did 
all  I  promised  in  that  business  of  the  house.  I  did  it  because 
you  asked  me;  because  I  love  you;  because  I  love  no  other. 

"Susie!"  he  went  on  passionately,  his  face  a  dull  crimson 
and  the  pulse  in  his  forehead  throbbing  and  articulate,  "I 
never  loved  another.  I  love  you ;  you  are  my  wife.  Trust  me 
— I  didn't  know  I  had  another — I  swear  it." 

She  turned  to  him  with  a  quick  movement.  "Will  you  come 
ashore  and  see — this  woman?" 

"I  can't.  I  daren't.  If  the  guv'nor  happens  to  hear  of  all 
this  delay,  I'm  done." 

"Then  I  must,"  Susie  returned. 

"  Don't — Gawd  love  you,  don't  make  a  fool  of  me.  Trust 
me  till  we  come  back.  Trust  me  till  then." 


252  THE  ISSUE 

He  looked  straight  into  her  eyes,  his  voice  ringing  with  pathos. 
He  moved  forward  begging  for  consideration  and  the  influence 
he  exercised  would  have  done  its  work  had  not  Tony  interfered 
with  a  sharp  reminder  of  the  position. 

"Don't  you  be  a  foo',  Lass!"  he  threw  out.  "Get  ashore 
an'  let  t'beaks  settle  it." 

"Yes,"  she  replied.     "That  will  be  the  best  way." 

They  moved  to  the  gangway.  Saunderson  followed  plucking 
at  the  neckerchief  he  wore,  shouting  with  annoyance,  passionate, 
humiliated,  and  threatening  reprisals  on  Tony  Crow. 

"I'll  be  even  wiv  you!  S'elp  me!  I'll  be  even  wiv  you. 

Interfering — playing  the  goat  wiv  lies  an' "  he  broke  off, 

and  the  sentence  died  in  a  spatter  of  oaths  as  he  watched  them 
climbing  the  rail. 

The  blacksmith  made  haste  with  his  charge  and  gingerly 
following  her,  took  a  seat  in  the  boat.  He  spoke  with  an 
assurance  he  did  not  feel  as  he  remarked:  "Noo,  Susie,  ye're 
weel  out  o'  thot  mess.  So  set  firm  an'  don't  get  skearet;  fer 
if  there's  one  thing  ah'm  in  doot  abaht,  it's  puddlin'  arahnd 
in  a  sluckit-sasser  o'  this  descreeption.  Ah  ca'  it  fair  temptin' 
o'  Proveedence — nowt  else." 

And  on  the  schooner's  deck  Saunderson  moved  with  twitching 
muscles,  going  toward  his  cabin.  "It's  the  curse,"  he  an- 
nounced grimly  quiet.  ' '  Gawd  give  me  time. ' ' 


CHAPTER  VI 
TOOTH  AND  NAIL 

THE  river  swirled  beneath  leaden  skies.  Clouds  charged 
to  the  zenith,  leaping  from  the  horizon  in  dusky  shapes, 
grim,  fantastic,  blurring  the  landscape.  They  loomed 
grandly  over  a  world  inexplicably  pestered  by  blinding  squalls 
of  hail  and  sleet.  The  wind  moaned  with  the  voice  of  a  com- 
plaining legion.  It  swept  over  the  shivering  Essex  marshes 
shouting  and  vengeful ;  telling,  in  gusts,  in  sudden  shrieks,  and 
whirling  onslaughts,  of  its  triumph  farther  east,  farther  north, 
where  no  coast  line  sheltered  sluggard  craft  and  the  gulls  could 
skim  no  longer.  It  struck  the  water,  and  the  water  smoked; 
the  leaping  waves  were  shorn  of  their  crests;  a  seething  spume 
ran  blindly  downward,  hissing,  twisting,  clipped  of  its  might. 

The  river  swirled  onward.  It  rolled  seaward,  carrying  on 
its  bosom  the  grime  and  filth  of  a  thousand  gutters.  Like  a 
turgid  torrent,  swollen,  dim,  and  very  vast,  it  moved  toward 
the  portals  of  the  great  estuary;  swollen,  lashed,  and  hugely 
masterful  it  passed  down  the  dim  Reaches  and  met  its  mother — 
crying  as  a  child  cries,  with  pain;  moaning  as  an  infant  moans, 
searching  for  rest. 

The  afternoon  waned. 

Here  and  away  the  breath  of  far-off  steamers  hung  in  dusky 
blotches  about  the  horizon ;  here,  under  the  low  hills  sheltering 
Mucking  Bight,  a  group  of  small  fry  lay  with  folded  wings  and 
bowed  rigging,  watching  the  turmoil;  far  down  Sea  Reach  a  few 
black-sailed  barges  leaped  the  combing  seas;  for  the  rest  the 

253 


254  THE  ISSUE 

waters  were  bare  of  sails.  Night  approached — a  wild  night, 
full  of  presage;  crammed  with  tokens  a  child  might  read. 
A  fiery  gleam  escaped  the  charging  clouds.  The  river  took  up 
the  challenge  and  ran  in  strips  of  blood.  A  light  appeared  smirk- 
ing solemnly  amidst  the  gloom;  about  it  clamoured  the  gulls ; 
about  it,  too,  rose  a  column  of  spray,  white,  scintillating,  tinged 
with  rainbow  hues.  It  marked  the  edge  of  the  sands,  bobbing 
gravely.  Beyond  was  chaos. 

The  Bluebell  moved  in  mid-channel.  She  heeled  with  her 
lee  rail  awash.  One  man  was  shadowed  amidst  the  sprays 
forward — a  dim  and  fantastic  figure  clad  in  gleaming  oilskins; 
another  lounged  at  the  wheel. 

A  ray  of  light,  circular  and  very  intense,  marked  the  binnacle. 
The  glare  fell  on  Saunderson,  lighting  his  face,  lighting  the 
moving  spokes,  tinging  the  folds  of  his  coat  with  touches  of 
fire.  Beyond,  the  shadows  grew  blacker,  more  intense,  and 
the  track,  so  luminous  and  angry  with  movement  under  the 
stern,  trailed  off  into  nothingness. 

Saunderson  was  at  the  schooner's  wheel,  steering  with  one 
hand;  the  other  was  hidden  beneath  the  folds  of  his  oilskin.  He 
had  stood  thus,  almost  without  relief,  since  they  got  under  way 
off  the  Forts.  Once  or  twice  he  had  shouted  for  the  mate  and 
gone  below  to  renew  his  vigour  with  the  aid  of  rum.  And  so, 
by  the  time  the  Bluebell  had  reached  the  Chapman,  he  had 
worked  himself  into  that  reckless,  devil-may-care  attitude, 
which  is  so  productive  of  disaster  on  the  crowded  river  and 
ocean  highways. 

He  did  not  see  the  matter  from  this  point  of  view.  He  saw 
himself,  rather,  in  the  light  of  a  man  cheated  of  his  rights; 
deluded,  humiliated,  maligned.  His  pride  had  suffered  the 
severest  conceivable  blow.  He  had  told  the  mate  that  he  was 
about  to  be  married  and  that  his  wife  would  accompany  him. 


TOOTH  AND  NAIL  255 

The  mate  had  met  him,  and  he,  with  those  other  grinning 
chysers,  had  witnessed  Tom  Surridge's  attempt;  had  seen  the 
fight  and  subsequent  trouble,  and  had  held  aloof. 

He  cursed  them  all,  Tom  Surridge,  the  mate,  the  crew,  and 
Tony  Crow;  but  most  of  all  he  cursed  his  wife,  that  ancient 
flame  of  his,  whom  he  had  only  won  by  marriage,  years  ago  in 
Plymouth.  He  saw  himself,  in  his  mind's  eye,  again  at  the 
Western  seaport,  and,  following  the  shadows  of  the  past,  pic- 
tured the  hilly  country  where  he  had  wooed  her.  Now  he  was 
in  the  woods  behind  old  Barker's  farm ;  now  on  the  Hoe  listening 
to  the  band  and  praying  for  quiet.  How  difficult  it  had  been  to 
win  her;  what  obstacles  he  had  surmounted.  Old  Barker! 
Chks!  he  was  a  fool.  Suspicions — desires  for  another  match — 
a  man  of  the  sea.  They  had  forced  his  hand.  He  had  married 
her  without  love — married  her  of  sheer  pique.  Then  came 
those  months  of  degradation,  so  he  termed  it  now,  a  growing 
hatred  of  the  tie  he  had  formed,  and,  his  charter  accomplished, 
the  opportunity  to  sneak  away  and  find  distraction  in  other 
fields. 

Distance  brought  oblivion.  Lilly  Barker  died.  He  swore 
it.  Holding  grimly  to  the  wheel  and  staring  at  the  elusive 
Lubber's  Point,*  he  swore  it.  Thereafter  all  remembrance  of 
her  vanished.  He  had  found  other  pleasures,  newer  loves,  less 
persistent  tongues;  but  this  time,  and  the  next,  and  the  next, 
all  through  a  bewildering  chaos  of  faces  he  had  carefully 
avoided  the  binding  ties  of  marriage. 

All  these  had  passed  as  the  swallows  pass  with  the  approach 
of  winter.  All  these  had  sunk  as  a  stricken  ship  sinks  beside 
the  rocks  which  have  ground  out  her  soul.  All  these  had 
vanished,  now  in  misery,  now  in  suffering,  now  to  form  other 

*A  line  set  vertically  within  the  compass  to  mark  the  position  of  the  ship's 
head. 


256  THE  ISSUE 

friendships,  and  he  had  swum  triumphant  down  the  stream 
of  passion  until,  once  more,  he  came  to  his  old  surroundings; 
the  county  of  his  birth,  and  fought  his  way  to  the  position  of 
skipper  under  Dunscombe. 

Here  fate  had  smiled  on  his  growing  madness  for  the  fair 
daughter  of  poor  George  Sutcliffe;  here  fate  had  dallied  with  him 
pausing,  beckoning,  urging,  until  he  was  completely  immeshed 
in  the  new  labyrinth;  and  here,  after  succumbing  a  second  time 
to  marriage,  while  the  cup  of  joy  was  at  his  lips;  the  blow  had 
fallen.  Someone  had  said  that  his  wife,  the  woman  with  the 
haggard  eyes,  who  pined  always  for  a  return  of  the  endear- 
ments of  her  early  wedded  life,  had  come  back — that  she 
searched  for  him. 

He  stood  at  the  wheel  cursing  grimly.  No  other  man  would 
have  attempted  the  task  he  had  set  himself;  few  would  have 
been  physically  competent.  But  Saunderson  was  inured  to 
hardship  from  infancy;  his  muscles  were  like  iron;  his  nerve, 
in  all  except  one  phase,  adamant. 

A  squall  which  had  been  growing  to  windward  now  burst 
on  the  hard-pressed  schooner.  The  skipper  luffed  with  the 
precision  of  an  old-time  yachtsman,  and  brought  her  to  the  wind, 
her  canvas  roaring.  Far  up  in  the  night  blocks  clanged,  booms 
leaped,  shackles  jingled.  A  deluge  smote  them;  rain,  hail, 
spray,  stung  the  slanting  decks.  But  Saunderson  took  these 
matters  as  part  of  the  general  turmoil  in  which  he  had  become 
involved;  and  as  though  Nature  strove  to  sympathise  and  con- 
dole with  him  on  his  sombre  outlook.  He  glanced  up  and 
shouted  unmoved: 

"Down  tawps'l!    Clew  up  and  make  it  fast." 

The  loosened  sail  flapped  with  the  roar  of  thunder.  Two 
hands,  flattened  and  fantastic,  stole  from  the  sheerpole,  climbed 
the  rigging,  footed  the  ropes,  smothered  it,  and  crept  back. 


TOOTH  AND  NAIL  257 

The  squall  hummed  far  in  the  solitude  of  the  Kentish  hills,  up- 
rooting trees,  removing  loose  tiles,  bothering  the  cattle;  but 
Saunderson  had  returned  to  the  pictures  of  his  past,  a  phantom 
procession  moving  slowly  in  his  brain. 

He  was  standing  on  the  Bluebell's  deck  listening  to  Micky 
Doolan's  meandering  history  of  the  Gat.  A  calm  reigned. 
He  saw  it,  marked  the  oily  heave  of  the  swell,  heard  the  monot- 
onous slatting  of  the  sails;  watched  that  cloud  bank  rising  over 
the  Maplins  tinged  with  flickering  points  of  light  which  flashed 
and  died  as  loose  powder  flashes  and  dies,  noiseless,  in- 
scrutable. 

Now  he  fought  with  Elliott  on  the  Stormy  Petrel's  deck.  He 
was  winning.  He  would  have  won;  but  there  came  a  lurch 
coincident  with  a  blow  and  he  tripped — tripped,  and  Elliott 
won  instead.  Paltry!  Unthinkable.  The  result  of  that 
asinine  collision  of  his  for  which  he  suffered. 

What  did  Elliott  want  down  there  anyway  ?  Was  the  Gat  a 
place  wherein  a  man  should  go  fooling  about — looking  for 
derelicts?  No;  he  swore  it.  His  voice  rose  to  a  shout.  Any 

man  would  keep  out  of  the  Gat  who  knew  it's  cursed 

Aye,  but  Elliott  did  not  know.  And  now  he  was  in  the  shadow 
of  it — down  the  cellar,  where  all  vanished  who  saw  what  he 
had  seen.  Gawd!  He  faced  the  blackness,  drinking  in  the 
moisture  which  trickled  down  his  cheeks.  He  faced  it  whimp- 
ering, acknowledging  that  he  was  hemmed. 

Again  he  leaned  over  the  wheel  searching  the  binnacle.  The 
Lubber's  Point  swam  ridiculously  buoyant.  It  evaded  his  custody. 
It  refused  to  obey  his  desires.  Chks!  the  sails  guided  him, 
towering  in  the  darkness,  round  and  intensely  sombre.  He 
asked  himself  why  had  these  incidents  happened;  to  what  end 
had  he  given  out  that  Elliott  was  down  the  cellar;  to  what  end 
had  he  married  Susie,  committed  bigamy,  and  brought  himself 


258  THE  ISSUE 

within  reach  of  the  law  ?  The  answer  echoed  remorselessly  in 
his  brain. 

A  silent  cabin;  a  stifling  and  intense  weight  of  fear;  the  loneli- 
ness of  a  man  who  acknowledged  a  force  he  could  not  compre- 
hend. A  vision  of  the  courts  and  a  weeping,  middle-aged 
woman  forever  pressing  at  his  heels.  This,  when  he  had 
counted  on  Susie's  love  and  aid;  this,  when  he  had  so  generously 
foregone  Sutcliffe's  debt;  this,  and  the  triumph  of  Tony  Crow 
and  all  the  clacking  busybodies. 

A  shout  echoed  above  the  turmoil,  snapping  his  thoughts  like 
a  slammed  door: 

"See  that  steamer,  Skipper?" 

Saunderson  had  seen  nothing  for  some  time  beyond  the  motiey 
puppet  procession  which  thronged  his  brain.  He  left  the 
wheel  and  gazed  under  the  foot  of  the  mainsail. 

A  flashing  vista  of  lights,  tier  upon  tier,  pierced  the  darkness, 
crossing  obliquely  the  schooner's  track.  Saunderson  returned 
to  the  helm  and  swiftly  put  it  down.  He  hailed  the  watch  with  a 
shout,  masterful,  supremely  alert:  "Ready  about!"  And 
again:  "Is  our  light  burning?" 

A  voice  swept  up  with  the  spray  :"Na-a — gone  out.  Boy's 
trimmin'  it." 

"Then  blow  your  horn!" 

A  few  wheezy  gasps  struggled  into  being.  A  snort,  as  of 
anger,  broke  from  the  steamer's  whistle.  Then,  as  the  Blue- 
bell turned  on  her  heel,  while  the  canvas  roared  in  the  gale, 
the  lights  grew  swiftly  blinding.  High  above  the  paltry 
schooner  they  pierced  the  blackness,  staring  with  an  eye  of 
supreme  disdain;  overlooking  her,  pointing  her  disorder. 
Blocks  stood  out,  sails  appeared  where  no  sails  had  been.  They 
fluttered  helplessly;  ropes  dangled;  the  wet  decks  shone  under 
a  shower  of  silver  spray.  A  voice  shouted:  "Schooner  ahoy! 


TOOTH  AND  NAIL  259 

What  vessel  is  that?  Why  the  devil  are  you  without  lights?" 
Other  remarks,  less  complimentary,  less  pertinent,  followed — 
then  a  touch,  a  lurch — sliding,  swift,  almost  an  escape,  and  the 
steamer  swept  by. 

Saunderson  smiled  grimly.  His  mood  matched  his  environ- 
ment. Peril?  Chks!  He  seized  the  binnacle  lamp  and 
flashed  it  on  the  bow  and  growled  her  name:  "The  Lon- 
doner— goin'  like  a  torpedo  boat  in  the  thick  of  the  traffic. 
Lumme!  I'd  slow  you  down  if  I  had  my  way." 

The  steamer's  engines  were  churning  the  water  into  a  mill- 
race.  She  moved  astern  at  full  speed.  Her  crew  were  pre- 
paring to  lower  a  boat.  Again  a  voice  rose:  "Any  damage 
skipper  ?  Want  assistance  ?  " 

Saunderson,  smarting  under  fancied  injuries,  blind  to  his  own 
iniquities,  shouted  truculently  into  the  void.  "Na!  To  hell 
wiv  you  an'  your  assistance!  Why  can't  you  keep  your  eyes 
skinned?  I  want  no  help  from  the  likes " 

The  schooner  filled  on  the  starboard  tack.  She  heeled  over, 
careening  toward  the  black  Essex  shores  and  hissed  out  of 
sight.  Saunderson's  eye  fell  on  the  crew  huddled  in  group  to 
leeward.  He  roared  at  the  mate,  bidding  him  take  the  wheel 
while  he  and  others  examined  the  damaged  gear. 

"Keep  your  luff!"  he  ordered.  "Don't  let  her  fall  rampin* 
full — till  I  see  how  the  strings  will  stand." 

He  moved  away,  fumbling  with  one  hand,  staring  at  the  splin- 
tered rail,  manosuvring  his  men  with  the  judgment  of  one  born 
to  command.  WTith  the  aid  of  a  few  knots  and  some  shortened 
spans  the  rigging  was  made  trustworthy.  The  damage  had 
been  trifling.  Indeed  in  the  reflected  light  of  his  misery,  it 
appeared  a  paltry  business;  a  thing  too  inconsiderable  to  require 
mention.  He  returned  to  the  wheel,  giving  his  orders  with  a 
snap. 


260  THE  ISSUE 

"Ready  about.  Down  jib  while  we're  in  the  wind!  Snug 
your  main  tawps'l  on  the  cap.  Make  it  fast."  He  put  the 
helm  over  and  shouted.  "Hard  a-lee!"  then  stood  watching 
the  flare  on  Chapman  Head  as  the  Bluebell  bowed  the  seas 
swinging  towards  the  open  Channel. 

The  canvas  roared.  Booms  whanged,  sheets  jerked.  The 
men's  voices,  whimpering  in  a  long  drawn  minor  howl,  sounded 
amidst  the  clatter — then,  after  a  space,  silence;  the  comparative 
silence  of  a  gale  swishing  high  overhead;  booming  in  the 
rounded  canvas,  twanging  on  the  tight  wire  shrouds.  The 
silence  of  a  weather  shore  and  Saunderson  again  occupied  with 
his  puppets. 

His  thoughts  rested  on  Susie.  A  few  nights  ago  he  had  held 
her  in  his  arms  and  she  had  promised  to  be  his  wife;  had 
promised  to  help  him  in  that  struggle  for  fame  which  was 
with  him  a  passion  only  second  in  intensity  to  that  he  held  for 
her.  Now  Susie  was  lost  to  him;  another  woman  had  usurped 
her  place.  Could  that  other  woman  aid  him?  No  she  could 
not  aid  him — he  had  no  love  for  her.  He  recognised  that  her 
manner  annoyed  him — that  she  fawned  upon  him  like  a  sick 
snake.  If  she  had  returned — if  she  had  returned,  he  must 
endure  it.  Must.  He  was  very  certain  on  that  point.  He 
reiterated  the  fact  with  a  semi-drunken  gravity  that  matched 
to  mimicry  the  profound  and  implacable  gloom  of  the  night. 
Must.  He  looked  into  the  compass  and  said  aloud, 
"Must!"  then  halted  as  other  questions  clamoured.  Could 
he  climb  with  her  at  his  elbow  ?  Could  he  reach  that  dizzy  Eldor- 
rado  which  appealed  so  wonderfully  to  his  imagination,  with 
her?  Could  he?  And  what  about  the  law  courts?  If  she 
had  returned  it  was  bigamy  ?  If  ?  He  knew  she  had  returned. 
The  likeness  sketched  by  Tony  Crow  stuck  in  his  mental  vis- 
ion: "Tall,  fmffity  yellow  hair,  blue  een  wi'  a  bit  sparkle  when 


TOOTH  AND  NAIL  261 

she's  vexit " ;  he  knew  that  description.  Knew  it.  Must  abide 
by  the  consequences.  Must — must.  The  knowledge  was 
purgatory. 

His  thoughts  whirled  like  the  spindriff  slashing  over  the 
weather  rail  to  sting  his  face;  they  whirled,  criss-cross,  far 
out  of  reach,  leading  him  to  heights  he  could  not  scale;  to 
depths  he  dared  not  plumb.  He  swayed  at  his  post.  His  head 
swam.  His  arm  gave  him  pain.  Chks!  a  pull  at  the  mm 
bottle  put  him  on  his  feet.  He  steered  with  one  hand. 

Far  ahead,  glimmering  faintly  amidst  the  shadows  brooding 
over  Southend,  a  signal  flashed ;  then  a  train  of  sparks  followed 
by  a  shower  of  coloured  lights  fell  in  symmetrical  curves 
through  the  night.  But  Saunderson  did  not  see  it. 

There  are  moment's  in  all  men's  lives  when  every  detail  is 
worthy  of  consideration;  when,  if  the  grip  is  relaxed  in  the 
smallest  degree,  by  the  most  insignificant  trifle,  that  trifle  is 
sufficient  to  spell  ruin.  Saunderson  had  arrived  at  this  mo- 
ment. By  slow  and  tortuous  stages  he  had  arrived  at  that 
point  when  every  outside  circumstance  required  his  watchful 
care — if  he  would  win.  But,  shrewd  as  he  was,  he  had  not  the 
wit  to  know  it.  He  could  see  his  hand;  he  could  see  the  bin- 
nacle, he  could  see  the  deck  at  his  feet;  but  beyond  was  nothing- 
ness, vacuity,  shadowed  by  a  fate  which  made  havoc  of  men's 
lives  and  against  which  it  was  useless  to  fight. 

Had  he  seen  that  signal  he  would  have  known  that  a  heavy 
and  inadequately  manned  collier,  whose  owners  are  a  byword 
for  cheese-paring,  was  blundering  up  river,  and  he  would  have 
kept  himself  ready  for  eventualities.  But  the  man  had  lost 
all  sense  of  danger.  The  rum  bottle  was  an  illusive  fillip; 
in  its  train  were  shadows  more  sombre,  more  stupifying  than 
those  he  battled.  He  stood  at  the  wheel  steering  carelessly, 
his  thoughts  centred  on  himself,  his  plans,  and  Susie. 


a6a  THE  ISSUE 

The  wind  moaned.  Another  squall  was  flaring  to  the 
zenith.  The  clouds  raced  past  a  bleary  vacancy  where  the 
young  moon  sank  like  a  dim  sickle,  low  in  the  west.  Sometimes 
the  sails  fluttered  and  roared;  sometimes  they  bellied  full  and 
round  with  only  the  hum  of  tension  and  the  pattering  fall  of 
reef-points  to  mark  the  steady  drone  of  the  gale. 

The  mate  and  two  of  the  watch  consulted.  Under  other 
circumstances  they  would  have  been  in  bed;  but  Saunderson's 
navigation  effectually  kept  sleep  from  their  eyes.  The  schooner 
raced  to  windward — a  blow  on  the  bluff  of  the  bow  sounded 
and  the  spray  drenched  them  where  they  stood. 

"She'll  be  aback,"  said  the  mate. 

"He's  takin'  the  hull  bloomin'  river  fer  his  bloomin'  course," 
the  third  hand  asserted  in  a  dreary  monotone. 

The  mate  took  the  bit  in  his  teeth.  The  crew  straggled 
aft  in  a  body  to  expostulate.  A  man  before  the  mast  exper- 
iences sufficient  hardship,  sufficient  discomfort,  sufficient  of  all 
unpalatable  things  on  God's  earth  at  the  hands  of  niggard 
owners — for  that  is  his  birthright;  it  is  written  on  his  articles. 
But  this  was  rank  and  premeditated  suicide.  Saunderson  was 
drunk  of  two  sources — excitement  and  rum.  The  men  knew 
only  of  the  rum. 

Hence,  when,  after  an  interminable  period  occupied  in  a 
persistent  chase  of  the  elusive  Lubber's  Point,  Saunderson 
became  aware  that  the  schooner  was  yawing  horribly,  he  put 
the  helm  down,  discarded  once  more  the  compass,  and  stood 
gravely  regarding  the  sleeping  canvas — canvas  that  hummed 
with  the  roll  of  drums.  Saunderson's  eyes  fell.  They  took 
in  the  group  of  the  three,  standing  in  the  shadow  of  the  main- 
sail. 

"What  d'ye  want?"  he  yelled  with  sudden  passion.  "Get 
for'ud!  Get  on  the  lookout! " 


TOOTH  AND  NAIL  263 

The  men  hung  fire.  Indecision  had  them  by  the  shoulders 
and  Saunderson  swore  with  consummate  fluency,  until  his  eyes 
fell  on  the  racing  compass  card  and  the  wheel  buzzed.  Some- 
thing smote  the  schooner  broad  on  the  bow.  A  sea — green, 
tempestuous — spitting  at  the  mainsail.  Swis-s-sh!  It  passed 
to  leeward.  The  squall  broke  over  them. 

The  Bluebell  lay  down  to  it,  burying  her  lee  rail  to  the  hatch 
coamings.  She  leaped  at  the  angry  waters  as  a  steeplechaser 
leaps  at  the  hedges  and  ditches  spanning  his  path.  A  sheet 
parted.  The  chain  tied  a  dozen  knots  about  the  sheave-hole  and 
a  sail  whanged,  somewhere — high  in  the  blackness.  Saunder- 
son struggled  with  the  wheel,  easing  it  down  with  knee  and  one 
hand,  gripping  the  spokes;  luffing — hugely  determined. 

"  Let  go  jib  an'  stay-s'l  halliards.  Let  go — snug  'em  down! " 
He  shouted  the  order  unabashed  at  the  fury  of  the  buzzing 
wind.  He  added:  "Down  wiv  'em,  my  sons.  Lively 's  the 
word." 

The  mate  faced  him,  truculent  of  aspect.  "No  man  can 
cross  that  deck,"  he  announced.  "They  should  a  bin  in 
afore." 

"For'ud  an'  get  'em  in  now." 

"For'ud  yerself." 

The  skipper  watched  with  ponderous  gravity.  "There's 
only  one  word  that  puts  that  into  English,"  he  said;  "it's 
'mutiny.' " 

"You're  drunk,  Skipper." 

The  schooner  heeled  again.  In  the  argument  Saunderson 
had  forgotten  the  wheel.  The  sails  were  full;  bellying  black 
against  the  sky.  The  mainsail  stooping  thirstily  caught  the 
water  as  with  a  scoop  and  poured  it  forth  like  a  cascade.  Skip- 
per and  mate  both  gripped  the  wheel.  They  moved  the  spokes 
tenderly,  as  a  surgeon  handles  a  hurt,  edging  down  the  helm. 


264  THE  ISSUE 

They  strove  to  bring  the  vessel  gently  to  the  wind,  but  before 
the  compass  had  swung  three  points  an  ominous  crack  sounded 
high  aloft — the  foretopmast  trembled,  lurched,  leaned  out,  and 
clattered  to  the  deck. 

"Ease  off  your  booms!     Down  peaks!" 

Somebody  moved  to  obey.  The  foresheet  whizzed;  the 
main  refused.  In  a  moment  the  schooner  rushed  up  into  the 
wind's  eye  with  all  her  blocks  and  canvas  thundering.  The 
mate  made  a  trumpet  of  his  hands. 

"Hard  up!  Hard  up!"  he  shouted.  "She'll  be  in  irons 
with  this  tide  under  her  bow.  Stand  back,  Skipper — give  me 
hold." 

Saunderson  argued.  He  pointed  truculently  at  the  fallen 
spars:  "Clear  away — wreck!"  he  growled,  "clear  away,  an' 
be  damned!"  Then  again  a  voice  leaped — insistent,  ringing 
the  tale  of  a  new  hazard. 

"Ahoy!     Ahoy!     See  that  steamer?" 

A  man  climbed  to  leeward  and  peered  under  the  draggled 
mainsail.  "Where  away?"  he  yelled. 

"Clost  abeam!" 

The  mate  saw.  He  moved  towards  the  rigging  shouting: 
"All  up!  She's  done.  Aft,  my  sons — out  boat." 

The  voices  mingled  in  a  shout:  "Steamer  ahoy!  ahoy! 
Hard  a-starboard — hard  over!"  they  spoke  very  clearly,  very 
concisely;  with  the  strained  passion  of  men  whose  lives  were  in 
the  balance. 

The  squall  had  spent  its  fury;  the  gale  garnered  its  forces 
under  Leigh  hills,  fetching  breath  for  further  effort.  The 
disabled  schooner  hung  in  the  wind,  her  head  drooping,  her 
sails  shivering.  As  a  horse,  finding  himself  riderless  on  the 
outskirts  of  a  fight  stands  whinnying  for  his  master,  so  the 
Bluebell  hung  faltering,  trembling,  and  in  fear. 


TOOTH  AND  NAIL  265 

The  men  engaged  in  launching  the  boat  looked  up.  Within 
fifty  yards  two  dim  lights  winked  in  the  blinding  rain;  a  red 
blotch  and  a  green;  high  overhead  a  faint  smudge  swung  in 
the  fork  where  in  well-ordered  vessels  a  mast-head  light  burns. 
In  five  minutes,  unless  they  could  lower  the  boat,  the  whole 
crew  would  be  in  "Kingdom  Come." 

"Out  knives — cut  her  away.  See  the  plug's  in.  Oars? 
Two  of  'em.  Bailer?  Gawd!  its'  nowhere.  Painter  for'ud 
— out  wi'  her!  Hell!  look  slippy." 

A  sound  like  the  rustle  of  a  thousand  tons  of  straw  grew  into 
the  night.  The  steamer  moved  out  of  the  murk — a  ponderous 
thing  throwing  a  wave.  She  butted.  A  sea  leaped  the  schoon- 
er's deck,  and  the  men  thrown  from  their  feet,  spluttered;  hold- 
ing hazardously  to  ropes.  Some  one  swore  loudly  in  a  thin 
falsetto.  Then,  amidst  a  hail  of  falling  gear  and  the  noise  of 
splintered  woodwork,  the  steamer  drew  astern. 

And  with  her  movement  came  the  end.  For  some  the  end 
of  all  things,  the  "Kingdom  Come"  of  the  river;  for  others  a 
more  protracted  fate.  ^ 

Still  the  river  swirled  madly  beneath  leaden  skies. 


Part  I 
$aunDet0on 


CHAPTER  I 
THE  PROPHECY  OF  OLD  MOORE 

DUSK  was  falling  on  the  picturesque  village  by  the  river 
when  a  cart  clattered  noisily  across  the  wharf  and 
drew  up  before  the  smithy  door.  Tony  Crow,  hearing 
the  sound  of  wheels  and  scenting  a  job,  came  quickly 
forward.  "Socks!"  he  exclaimed  as  a  man  sprang  to 
the  ground  and  moved  to  meet  him,  "Socks,  if  it  ain't 
Micky  Doolan  'an  ah  thowt  maybe  t'were  a  bruken  tire." 

Micky  gripped  him  by  the  arm,  excitement  written  large  in 
every  feature.  "Whisht!"  he  cried.  "Have  ye  heard  the  news  ?" 

The  blacksmith  slapped  his  thigh  and  rolled  a  warning 
look  at  his  friend.  "News,"  he  said,  "is  loike  the  papers  — 
made  oop  o'  lies  wi  a  jorum  o'  detail  ta  gie  it  the  semblance  o' 
truth.  Ah  never  trust  news,  an'  ah  take  sma'  heed  o'  clack." 

He  turned  oracularly  to  face  the  small  boy  who  stood  blink- 
ing before  the  forge.  "Teddy!"  he  cried,  "ah  heerd  t'factry 
horn  blowed  this  five  minutes.  Ah  don't  want  to  be  haulet 
oop  under  t'act.  Scoot!  Shop's  shut." 

The  boy  found  his  jacket  and  departed  winking  monstrously. 

"That  boy,"  said  Tony  when  they  were  alone  and  he  had 
closed  the  door,  "is  late  fra  t'Boord  Schule.  He'd  worm  a 

267 


268  THE  ISSUE 

secret  oot  o'  a  dommed  axle-tree  an'  sell  it  fer  cigarettes.  Noo, 
Micky,  oot  wi't." 

The  two  men  drew  together  in  the  red  glow  of  a  fire  which 
still  leaped  and  spluttered  under  bellows  slowly  becoming 
exhausted.  Micky  produced  a  paper  and  stood  holding  it  in 
hand. 

"Ut's  the  curse,"  he  announced  with  the  solemnity  of  one 
who  sees  that  he  has  prophesied  correctly.  "I  told  him  how 
ut  would  be  an'  now  she's  dhown  the  cellar — ye  mark  that  ?" 

"Doon  t'cellar — wha's  putten  awa  noo?" 

"The  Bluebell,  my  son — the  Bluebell  an'  all  her  crew." 

"Socks!"  Tony  Crow  ejaculated  standing  unmoved,  "f Blue- 
bell— art  sure,  mon  ?  Sure  ?  " 

"Listhen,"  Micky  returned  and  began  to  turn  his  paper — 

"A  message  from  Port  Victoria,"  he  remarked  in  paren- 
thesis. "I  copied  ut  from  a  telegraft  lyin'  in  the  Scorcher's 
office.  Ut's  this: 

"  'Schooner  Bluebell  of  Riverton,  official  number  56784, 
sunk  in  collision  with  steamer  unknown,  east  of  Chapman. 
Fate  of  crew  uncertain.  Some  if  not  all  drowned.  Further 
particulars  later.'  " 

The  blacksmith  took  the  paper  and  holding  it  gingerly  with 
an  unsoiled  corner  of  his  apron,  examined  it  before  the  fire. 
"Well,  ah'm  dommed!"  he  remarked  at  length  and  punched 
an  unoffending  thigh. 

He  looked  up  at  Micky  Doolan  as  though  he  expected  some 
further  statement,  but  the  Irishman  was  moving  about  the 
smithy  jubilant  and  bent  only  on  advertising  the  degree  of 
accuracy  he  had  attained  in  prophecy,  and  as  though  in 
some  measure  he  was  responsible  for  the  strange  fact  of  ful- 
filment. 

"Ut  wass  bound  to  come,"  he  cried  out,  "ut  followed  quoit 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  OLD  MOORE  269 

natural — quoit.  Bill  Jeffries,  ye'll  remember,  wass  the  first  to 
coil  dhown  his  ropes.  Ut  happened  as  we  came  up  river  from 
the  Gat — off  Thames  Haven.  Seems  he  got  jammed  in  the 
gear  or  wass  thryin'  to  save  the  cat ;  but  annyway  he  got  pretty 
nigh  cut  in  half  before  we  could  move  to  help  him.  He's  wan 
— the  first — but  ut's  a  beginnin'. 

"  There  followed  Jem  Walters,  the  cook,  ye'll  moind,  who  wass 
knocked  overboard  when  the  Deerstalker  gibed  in  a  breeze  off 
Margate. 

"Nothin'  in  that,  ye'll  say.  A  common  enough  happenin'. 
Good.  But  ye'll  moind  that  Jem  Walters  wass  in  the  Bluebell 
too  that  night  in  the  Gat.  Well,  he's  quiet  now  an'  will  shpoil 
no  man's  grub  this  soide  av  Kingdom  Come.  Two,  my  son," 
he  announced,  and  stood  a  moment  eyeing  the  blacksmith's 
gaunt  form,  looking  through  him  with  the  gravity  of  a  seer. 

"An5  now  there's  this,"  he  went  on,  suddenly  marching  to 
emphasise  his  opinion.  "The  Bluebell's  down  the  cellar  an' 
her  crew  are  in  Kingdom  Come.  Ye  moind  that?  Well, 
Saunderson  wass  skipper  av  the  Bluebell  that  noight  in  the  Gat, 
an'  now  he's  dhown  the  cellar — three.  Three  ye  moind  within 
a  spatterin'  of  months,  an'  yet  they  say 

"Arroo!  arroo!  If  I  could  get  since  into  their  heads.  If  I 
could  get  them  to  look  at  ut  square.  If  I  could  make  them  see 
wid  my  eyes  in  a  manner  of  shpakin'  I'd " 

"Socks!"  said  Tony  Crow  with  sudden  energy,  "you've 
gotten  a  bee  in  yer  bonnet,  ma  mon.  Aal  the  crew's  not  gone. 
T'paper  says  so.  Bide  a  wee.  Dinnot  gae  so  fast.  Ah  doot 
Win'bag's  no  the  man  ta  gae  anywheer  wi'  oot  a  fecht.  Wha 
telled  ye  he's  doon  t'cellar?" 

"Who ?    No  one.    But  I  know,  I  know." 

"Man,"  said  the  blacksmith  with  a  large  emphasis,  "ye 
knaw  too  much  or  too  leetle — ah'm  no  sure  which.  But,  if  it's 


270  THE  ISSUE 

no  odds,  ah'll  wait  till  ah  see  Win'bag's  corpse  afore  ah  admeet 
he's  a  deed  un. 

"Also,  Mike  Doolan,"  he  proceeded  in  slow  commentary  on 
the  position  as  it  appeared  to  him,  "it  seems  t'me  ye  stand  in 
some  peeril  yourseP.  Ah've  heard  you  were  on  VBluebdl — 
likewise  thot  you  were  mate." 

Micky  Doolan  accepted  the  position  at  once.  "Thrue  bill," 
he  said,  "I  wass." 

"Weel,"  the  blacksmith  suggested,  "ah'm  no  gaein'  t'  pro- 
phecy; but  ah'd  be  carefu' — verra  carefu'  wi'  them  sluckit- 
sassers  ah  see  ye  bashin'  arahnd  in.  Seems  t'me  it  don't  want 
a  curse  t'get  a  mon  turnit  into  fish-meat  these  tunes — ner  a 
blessin'  neither.  Therefore " 

"  Arrah!  give  ut  a  rest,"  Micky  Doolan  interjected.  "  I  know 
whhat  I  know,  an'  I  know  we're  goin'  to  see  soights  we  never 
thought  to  see  if  Win'bag's  not  dhown  the  cellar.  Fer  if," 
he  threw  out,  negligently  twisting  a  thumb  to  indicate  Riverton, 
"if  there's  anny  truth  in  a  whisper  I  heard  bey  ant  .  .  . 
Elliott's  on  his  way  back — an' " 

"Elliott!"  the  blacksmith  shouted  standing  threateningly 
over  this  spinner  of  yarns  which  appeared  to  fall  true.  "  Gae 
on — gae  on!" 

"Nay;  if  you  take  it  like  that,  I'm  done,"  said  the  Irish- 
man. 

He  turned  on  his  heel  advertising  an  annoyance  he  scarcely 
felt.  " But  if,"  he  added,  "you  care  to  prove  my  words,  get  out 
an'  see  Tom  Surridge — maybe  he  won't  tell  yez  anny  lies." 

"Tom  Surridge?"  Tony  Crow  ejaculated,  still  very  red  and 
resentful. 

"Aye;  he's  drivin'  in  from  Riverton  to  meet  yez — with  the 
letters.  See?" 

He  moved  from  the  smithy  door,  crossed  the  street  and  got 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  OLD  MOORE  271 

himself  into  the  Southern  Trader.  The  landlord  welcomed 
him  with  the  enthusiasm  of  one  who  perceives  a  customer 
who  guarantees  the  production  of  clack. 


For  some  minutes  the  blacksmith  considered  the  information 
thrust  thus  enigmatically  upon  him;  then  he,  too,  passed  out 
into  the  village  street  and  made  towards  the  Riverton  road. 

If  there  was  any  truth  in  Micky  Doolan's  statements  it  was 
evident  that  he  might  expect  to  meet  Tom  Surridge  at  any 
moment.  He  decided  as  he  trudged  slowly  up  Slave  Alley  that 
it  was  very  necessary  to  meet ;  essential,  in  point  of  fact,  if  he 
were  to  carry  out  that  trust  of  his  with  regard  to  Susie. 

He  came  to  the  cross  roads  and  stood  peering  into  the  dark. 
A  cart  or  two  lumbered  heavily  by,  then  came  the  sound  of  a 
trotting  horse  and  the  noise  of  iron-tired  wheels.  "Tom  Sur- 
ridge for  money,"  said  the  blacksmith,  and  stood  to  intercept 
him. 

The  little  man  would  have  driven  past  if  Tony  had  per- 
mitted it,  but  at  the  sound  of  that  big,  bass  voice  the  horse 
was  on  his  haunches  and  Tom  crying  excitedly : 

"Tony  Crow,  as  I'm  alive!  Get  up,  man.  Get  up.  I  were 
comin'  for  you — by  law !  I  were  comin'  for  you." 

The  blacksmith  mounted  and  drew  the  apron  about  him. 
"Weel,"  he  said,  "thot's  strange;  fer  ah  were  comin'  t'  you, 
masen." 

"Luck!"  said  Tom  Surridge,  busy  turning  into  the  North- 
dean  and  Swinfleet  Lane.  » 

"Mike  Doolan,"  Tony  decided,  grim  of  attitude. 

"An'  he's  told  you  about  the  letter?" 

"Trust  him." 

Surridge  fumbled  in  his  pocket  and  passed  it  to  his  friend: 


272  THE  ISSUE 

"It's  from  Elliott  right  enough — Elliott  who  were  given  out  to 
be  down  the  cellar.  What  d'ye  make  o'  that,  Tony?" 

The  blacksmith  took  the  envelope  gingerly  between  finger 
and  thumb  and  held  it  to  the  lamp. 

"What  d'ye  make  of  it  ? "  Surridge  demanded  again. 

"Dom  ma  een!"  said  Tony  Crow  emphatically  punching  the 
thing  in  his  palm,  "an'  thot's  Yerkshur,"  he  added  as  though 
explanation  had  been  necessary. 

Surridge  shuffled  on  the  high  seat  beside  him  and  flicked 
at  the  mare.  "  O  law!  O  law! "  he  cried.  " To  think  as  that 
letter  should  'a  come  a'ter  all. " 

"If  you  was  to  swear,  Tammas,"  said  Tony  Crow,  "t'ud  do 
ye  a  power  o'  gude." 

"Maybe;  but  I'm  thinkin'  it  mought  result  in  a  habit,  an' 
swearin'  is  the  wunnerfullest  thing  fer  puttin'  my  old  woman's 
back  up  as  ever  was.  Talk  about  cats!  Why  arched  backs 
ain't  in  it.  It's  a  matter  o'  spinal  diseage — that's  what  it  is." 

"Tammas,"  said  the  blacksmith,  "ah'm  coomin'  t'  Swinfleet. 
Ah've  gotten  a  word  t'  say  t'  Susie." 

It  was  quite  dark  when  at  length  they  drew  rein  before  the 
old-world  cottage  at  the  back  of  Swinfleet  village.  Tom  had 
been  anxiously  expected  both  by  Susie  and  his  wife.  The 
latter  rushed  without  ceremony  to  the  door  at  the  sound  of  his 
coming  and  was  immediately  doleful  at  the  plight  of  her  spouse. 

"Sakes  alive!"  she  cried,  "if  you  ain't  chilled  to  the  blessed 
bone  an'  in  for  prelature  rhumatics,  I  don't  know.  Come  in, 
Tom — where  have  you  bin?  WTiat?  Mr.  Crow,  too — Tony 
Crow  I  do  declare.  Come  in  both  of  you  an'  get  your  hands 
warm.  It's  as  cold  as  a  blessed  church  with  the  roof  off. 
Take  your  uncle's  coat,  Susie — there's  a  dear." 

Tom  walked  into  the  passage  beside  the  girl.  His  air  was 
important;  his  eyes  curiously  shy  of  meeting  hers.  He  slid  up 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  OLD  MOORE  273 

to  her,  speaking  solemnly.  "Susie,"  he  whispered,  "I've  got 
so'thin'  to  say  to  you." 

Susie  halted.  The  fact  of  Tony's  appearance  and  the  late- 
ness of  the  hour  had  already  made  their  mark.  She  looked  up 
with  quick  intuition.  "There's  no  further  trouble,  is  there?" 
she  questioned. 

"No — no  trouble.  Only  joy  this  time.  Why — what  d'ye 
want  most  of  all  on  this  here  hearth,  Susie  ?  "  He  made  the  sig- 
nal relative  to  the  receipt  of  a  letter. 

"Nonsense,"  she  faltered. 

"True  as  gospel,  Susie." 

The  girl  faced  him,  white  to  the  lips.  It  seemed  that  she 
was  about  to  faint. 

"Pluck  up,"  he  begged.  "It's  from  foreign — it's  all  right. 
O  law!  harken  to  them  pigs." 

He  drew  the  letter  cautiously  from  his  pocket  and  thrusting 
it  within  her  hand  made  for  the  door.  "Read  it,"  he  urged. 
"O  law!  he's  all  right;  it's  from  foreign.  Bless  us  an'  keep  us! 
there's  Zulu  goin'  for  number  four — givin'  her  hopscotch,  she  is. 
Read  it  upstairs." 

He  vanished  at  once,  perturbation  showing  in  every  line  of  his 
kindly  face  as  he  went  on  a  fancied  errand  to  the  sties.  Mrs. 
Surridge  entered  the  kitchen  a  moment  later  and  discovered 
the  blacksmith  standing  before  the  fire  alone.  She  cried  out, 
scandalised  at  the  fact:  "Sakes  alive!  Where's  Tom  an' 
Susie?  Why  what  has  took  the  man  out  there  now?"  The 
sound  of  hoggish  welcome  had  announced  the  fact  of  Tom's 
occupation. 

"If  that  man  ain't  a  fair  miracle,"  she  decided,  "I  don't 
know.  Why — what's  the  trouble,  Tony  ? ' ' 

"Nay,  Missis,  there's  no  trouble,"  said  Tony  as  he  rubbed 
his  hands  before  the  blaze. 


274  THE  ISSUE 

"Tom  don't  go  pig  soothin'  unless,"  Mrs.  Surridge  announced 
emphatically.  Then  glancing  about,  "An'  where  in  the  name 
of  all  blessed  prophets  is  Susie?" 

Tony  chuckled. 

"  Ah  doot  it's  yon  letter  thot's  done  it,"  he  said. 

"What  letter?" 

"T'  letter  Tammas  bringet  fra  Elliott." 

Mrs.  Surridge  leaned  forward  in  absolute  dismay. 

"A  letter— from  Elliott?"  she  gasped. 

"  Thot's  it,  Missis.     T'  a  nail  it  is." 

Mrs.  Surridge  gathered  up  her  skirts  preparing  to  depart. 
She  turned  to  the  blacksmith  with  a  set  expression  of  disquietude 
"Old  Moore's  right,"  she  asserted.  "Wars  an'  rumours  of 
wars;  danger  to  a  crow-ned  head  an'  trouble  in  the  ager-i- 
culteral  districts.  If  this  ain't  the  trouble  he  speaks  of — I 
don't  know." 


CHAPTER  II 
TONY  PRODUCES  His  LINK 

TONY  GROW  and  Tom  Surridge  stood  with  their  backs 
to  the  fire,  smoking  pipes,  with  the  air  of  men  on  whom 
the  world  weighed  heavily.  They  were  silent.  Their  hands 
were  pocketed.  They  stared  at  the  blue  fumes  moving 
spirally  up  there  amidst  the  beams  and  hooks  and  sides  of 
bacon.  It  seemed  necessary  to  watch  something,  so  they 
watched  the  smoke. 

For  perhaps  fifteen  minutes  they  remained  engrossed;  then 
Mrs.  Surridge  whisked  into  the  kitchen  and  silence  gave  place 
to  sound. 

"To  think,"  said  the  lady  with  a  dolorous  inflection,  "to 
think  as  that  letter  has  come  too  late  by  a  handful  of  days! " 

The  two  men  regarded  her  with  solemn  eyes;  but  they  made 
no  comment.  Mrs.  Surridge  took  their  silence  in  the  light  of 
an  affront  and  stumbled  headlong  into  an  account  of  what 
had  passed. 

"I  went  up  to  find  Susie,"  she  announced,  "an'  there  she 
is  leanin'  out  o'  winda,  searchin'  the  sky  for  rays  of  comfort. 

"  'Rays  there  may  be,'  I  said,  'but  they're  all  mixed  up  with 
rhumatics  an'  the  like  out  there — come  in!'  An'  I  took  her  by 
the  solders,  an'  shut  the  winda. 

"  'Susie,'  I  says,  'take  heart,  my  deary,  take  heart —  there's 
a  pretty.'  And  she  slid  into  my  arms  like  a  babby  lookin'  for 

the  breast,  an' Sho!  Tom,  stand  quiet — there's  a  man; 

and  don't  look  as  though  you  wanted  to  eat  me." 

275 


276  THE  ISSUE 

"I  never  moved,"  Surridge  asserted  with  an  injured  air. 

"No;  but  you  might  have  moved.  You've  got  no  more 
synthapy  than  a  tomato,  for  all  you  look  so  red." 

Tom  strayed  across  and  put  his  hand  on  his  wife's  shoul- 
der. "How's  the  lass?"  he  questioned.  "How  do  she  take 
it?" 

Mrs.  Surridge  fell  into  his  arms  and  wept  for  some  minutes 
without  audible  response.  At  length  she  looked  up. 

"The  blessed  child's  frettin'  her  soul  to  fritters,"  she  decided, 
taking  up  the  cudgels  anew,  "an*  who's  to  wonder  at  it?  Not 
I,  Tom,  nor  you,  Mr.  Crow,  I'm  sure.  Well,  there  old  Moore's 
right.  There  is  trouble  in  the  ager-i-culteral  districts,  an' 
much  good  may  it  do  him." 

Surridge  glanced  appealingly  at  his  friend,  but  meeting  with 
no  encouragement  turned  once  more  to  his  wife. 

"An'  what  about  this  letter,  Missis?  Do  it  say  anything?" 
he  questioned. 

Mrs.  Surridge  threw  her  arms  about  his  neck,  administering 
a  caress  to  hide  her  emotion. 

"Say!"  she  exclaimed,  "it  says  a  many  things;  it's  pages  long 
an'  it  tells  of  all  that  happened  after  he  took  an'  run."  She 
broke  away  and  continued  energetically,  ticking  off  the  points 
on  the  fingers  of  her  left  hand: 

"First  he  took  the  Garter  Pier  boat — as  was  said.  Then  he 
hooked  a  steamer  and  clumb  on  board.  Then  conies  an 
accident — as  was  said.  His  boat  is  smashed  in  half;  but  him, 
bein'  on  board  the  steamer,  takes  no  harm.  Then  the  steamer 
people  finds  him  an'  they  put  him  in  irons  on  the  bridge — 
handcuffs,  Tom —  an'  Susie  never  a  bit  the  wiser.  So  there  he 
stands,  like  Cazebianker,  until  another  steamer  comes  sneakin' 
out  o'  the  fog  an'  hits  them  so  as  they  all  have  to  swim  for 
their  blessed  lives." 


TONY  PRODUCES  HIS  LINK  277 

"Swim?"  Surridge  ejaculated  as  his  wife  paused  for  breath, 
"Where  did  he  swim  to?" 

"To  a  ship  that  took  him  to  South  Amelica — three  months 
on  the  voyage — an'  never  a  chance  of  sendin'  his  letter.  An' 
now  he's  on  one  of  them  Pacific  boats  comin'  home  quick  as 
snails  after  rain.  An 'what  are  you  goin'  to  do  about  it?" 

Again  she  halted,  breathless  and  agitated  of  mien;  then 
having  in  a  measure  regained  her  composure,  she  looked  at 
Tom,  and  sighed. 

"What  are  you  goin'  to  do  about  it?    That's  what  I  want  to 
know." 

Tom  watched  Tony  Crow. 

"It's  a  ke-nundrum,"  he  asserted  and  fell  into  silence. 

"It's  aa  thot,"  Tony  acquiesced,  following  suit. 

"Eh!  Tom,"  Mrs.  Surridge  broke  out,  a  reminiscence  of 
what  she  had  read  rushing  in, "  it's  a  good  letter — a  letter  with  a 
heart,  an'  I  must  say  you  never  writ  me  the  like;  but  there, 
you  never  had  to  fly  for  your  life  on  your  blessed  wedding  day, 
as  Jack  had,  which  makes  all  the  diffalence." 

Mrs.  Surridge  sighed,  so  also  did  Tom.  "There  won't  be 
no  chance  o'  sleep,"  he  averred,  "not  fer  a  month  o'  Sundays." 

His  wife  seemed  to  divine  his  thoughts:  "It's  enough  to 
undermile  her  institution,"  she  said,  "the  way  you  let  that  girl 
be  worried.  I  wonder  at  you;  indeed  I  do." 

"What  could  I  do?"  Tom  questioned  pertinently. 

"What  did  you  drive  her  into  Riverton  for — an'  marry  her  to 
a  person  old  enough  to  be  her  father,  without  so  much  as  a 
woman  of  her  own  sect  to  see  her  straight  ?  I  would  have  seen 
Saundisson  dead  and  in  his  blessed  coffin  with  the  grass  growin' 
green  on  top  of  him  first." 

"I  couldn't  do  more  than  I  did,  Mother.  Why  what  could  I 
do?  She  said  if  I  didn't  drive  her  she'd  walk:  so  what  could  I 


278  THE  ISSUE 

do?  Besides,"  he  continued,  gaining  confidence  in  the 
knowledge  of  Tony's  presence;  "as  far  as  I  can  mind,  you 
always  were  for  her  marrying  Saundisson.  'A  fine  figure  of  a 
man,'  says  you.  'I  don't  like  him,'  says  I.  'I  don't  mind  you 
ever  likin'  a  big  man,  Tom,'  says  you,  an'  there  I  left  it." 

Mrs.  Surridge  turned  to  view  him.  She  took  in  his  parts 
critically  and  they  struck  her  as  being  incomplete.  "Tom," 
she  said;  "I  always  said  that  you  had  a  diseage,  an'  that  their 
name  is  deaf  an'  stoopid.  I  ask  Mr.  Crow:  What  do  you 
think  of  a  man  as  would  let  a  gell  go  away  with — sakes  alive! 
I  can't  name  him — an'  him  with  a  wife,  or  maybe  two  wives  in 
diffalent  parts  of  the  country,  an'  likely  as  not  a  family  to  keep 
in  each.  I  ask  you,  Tony,  for  I  know  you  won't  lie." 

"Nay,  Missis,"  said  the  blacksmith  with  his  great  laugh; 
"I  don't  know  thot  ah'm  qualified  t'geeve  ye  an  answer.  Wim- 
min's  curus  cattle  t'handle;  ye  never  know  where  to  have  them. 
Ah'm  no  sayin'  owt  against  'em,  or  Susie,  ye'll  mind;  but  on 
t' whole  ah  would  not  hanker  after  t'job." 

"But  the  gell's  married,  an'  here's  Saundisson  with  another 
wife,"  Mrs.  Surridge  expostulated.  "What  are  you  goin'  to  do 
about  that?" 

Tony  Crow  apparently  had  no  idea,  so  she  turned  once  more 
to  her  husband,  speaking  sarcastically. 

"Tom,  you're  on  the  Cauncel,*  an'  know  all  about  the  law 
an'  such.  What  happens  to  a  man  that  marries  two  women 
both  of  them  livin'  at  the  same  time  ?  An'  what  happens  to  the 
gell,  number  two,  that  is?" 

Torn  thrust  his  fingers  through  his  hair,  regarding  her  with 
grave  anxiety.  "Don't  ast  me,"  he  blurted;  then  with  a  sud- 
den inspiration:  "Why,  she  gets  quit  of  him,  I  reckon." 

Mrs.   Surridge   laughed.     "You're  a   pretty   Cauncellor!" 

*The  village  council. 


TONY  PRODUCES  HIS  LINK  279 

she  cried.  "No  wonder  folks  say  the  rates  have  riz.  Why, 
how  do  you  do  your  business  ?  " 

"Take  the  tip  from  them  as  know,  or  ast  the  clerk,"  Tom 
answered  glibly. 

"An' who's  the  clerk?" 

"Mr.  Sherren." 

"T'lawyer  man?"  Tony  interjected. 

"Aye;  he's  a  lawyer  right  enough." 

"Then  wi'  your  permission,  Missis,  we'll  take  a  run  rahndan' 
see  him.  Strike  t'iron  whiles  it's  hot,  Tammas;  thot's  ma  motta. 
It's  no  his  office,  or  his  hours;  but  ah've  often  worket  overtime 
fer  him,  an'  ah'm  thinkin'  he'll  not  take  it  amiss  if  we  look  him 
up.  Come  on."  He  linked  his  arms  with  Surridge  and 
dragged  him  away. 

An  hour  later  they  returned  from  their  conference  and 
found  Mrs.  Surridge  busily  engaged  preparing  supper  and  Susie 
helping  gaily.  Tony  crossed  over  and  took  the  girl's  hand. 

"Ah'm  glod  t'see  ye,"  he  remarked.  "Noo  listen:  we've 
catched  oor  hare  an'  we're  goin'  to  eat  him.  Tammas!  oot  wi 
yon  paper."  He  rubbed  his  hands  jubilantly  and  took  a  seat. 
Surridge  pulled  an  envelope  from  his  pocket,  opening  it  with 
shaking  fingers. 

"We  ast  him,"  he  explained,  "to  put  it  down  so  that  it  would 
be  clearer.  So  he  writ  it.  Susie,  it's  all  right;  it's  as  right  as 
seven  peas  in  a  pod." 

"How?" 

"Read  it — read  it,"  he  answered.  "It's  for  you — an'  Mr. 
Sherren  says,  'Bring  the  gell  to  my  office  to-morra  an'  we'll  see 
what  can  be  done.'  So  to-morra  you'll  have  to  jaunt  as  far  as 
Riverton." 

Susie  took  the  paper,  and  opening  it  read  aloud: 

"  'A  man  by  marrying  another  woman  while  his  first  wife  is 


ago  THE  ISSUE 

alive,  commits  bigamy,  and  is  liable  to  prosecution  and  penal 
servitude  for  not  exceeding  seven  years,  and  not  less  than  three 
years,  with,  or  without,  hard  labour;  unless  his  first  wife  had 
been  continually  absent  from  him  for  the  space  of  seven  years 
before  the  date  of  his  second  marriage,  and  he  did  not  know 
that  his  first  wife  was  living.' " 

"Hot  for  Saundisson!"  cried  Tom  rubbing  his  hands. 
"Law!  I  wouldn't  be  in  Saundisson's  shoes  for  money." 

"Haud  on,  Tammas!  Wait  fer  t'ither  part.  Socks!  thot's 
wheer  Susie  gets  t'pull  o'  Saundisson — by  t'  skeen  of  her  teeth," 
he  added  sotto  voce. 

Susie  continued  breathlessly:  "  '  The  position  of  the  woman 
who  married  him  when  his  first  wife  was  living  is  as  follows: 

"  '  The  marriage  ...  so  far  as  she  is  concerned  .  .  . 
would  be  a  nullity — and  void.' ' 

Tony  interjected,  "Meanin'  you're  no  married  at  aa,  Lass — 
think  on 't!" 

Susie  glanced  over  and  resumed:  "'She  would  be  .  .  . 
at  ...  liberty — to  marry — who  and  when  she  pleased 
*•..,.  .  and  ...  by  so  doing  .  .  .  she  would  not 
commit  .  .  .  any  offence  .  .  .  against  the  law.'  Oh, 
Auntie!" 

Mrs.  Surridge  caught  her  in  her  arms,  patting  her  back. 
"That,"  she  asserted,  "is  what  I  call  a  clear  prescription. 
Puddles  in  the  road  couldn't  be  clearer — not  though  you've 
walked  through  'em,"  she  added  reflectively.  She  moved 
across  the  kitchen  and  placed  a  hot  pie  on  the  table.  "Come 
along — it's  gettin'  cold.  Cold  pastry  is  like  a  fog;  it  gets  on  your 
chest." 

Then  all  took  chairs  and  Tom  cried  vociferously:  "An' 
to-morra  you're  to  see  him  an'  take  action  to  give  the  beggar 
his  doo.  Hooray,  Susie!" 


TONY  PRODUCES  HIS  LINK  281 

"I'll  see  Mr.  Sherren,"  she  replied,  a  dim  smile  lighting  her 
features;  "but  I  don't  know  about  taking  action.  I  think  per- 
haps it  would  be  better  to  wait  until  Jack  comes  home." 

"Thot's  a  sensible  plan,"  said  Tony  as  he  reached  for  the 
bread.  "Specially  as  things  have  tumbled  oot.  Ye  see,"  he 
went  on  as  the  others  awaited  his  explanation:  "ah've  seen 
Mrs.  Saundisson  since  I  were  here  last — an'  ah've  seen  Micky 
Doolan.  There's  been  trouble  dahn  river  wi  V Bluebell." 

Mrs.  Sum'dge  broke  in  with  a  dolorous  inflection.     "Ah! 
I  always  said  that  he'd  come  to  a  bad  end;  what  else  can  you 
expect  from  a  man  with  a  passel  of  wives  ?  " 

"  One's  mostly  enough,  Missis,"  Tony  asserted  with  a  laugh, 
"  Meanin,'  as  ah  said  before,  no  offence  to  anyone  here  present." 

Having  extricated  himself  thus  from  the  possibility  of  any 
subtle  meaning,  he  proceeded  at  his  leisure :  "As  ah  was  sayin', 
Mrs.  Saundisson  number  one  has  telled  me  so'thin'.  T'Bltiebell 
is  dahn  the  cellar — run  into  by  a  sluckit  steamer  an'  sunk." 

Mrs.  Surridge  turned  a  quick  glance  on  the  blacksmith. 
"An'  Saundisson?"  she  questioned. 

"Nay,  Saundisson  is  safe.  Never  fear.  He's  not  t'be  lost 
in  a  colleesion — not  he.  He's  in  hospital,  or  t'Sailor's  Home,  or 
some  ither  place  where  he'll  be  mendet  free  of  charge." 

Mrs.  Surridge  groaned. 

Tony  went  on  with  the  air  of  a  prophet:  "Noo,  Mrs. 
Saundisson  has  got  a  bit  money  savit;  an'  her  husband  will  be 
sackit  by  yon  Scorcher  chap — thot's  a  moral.  Weel,  Saundis- 
son bein'  seek,  an'  oot  at  elbows  wi  the  Guv'nor,  it's  safe  to  say 
he'll  allow  his  wife  t'keep  him — an'  we'll  see  sights.  How? 
Weel,  ye  knaw  as  weel  as  ah  do  masen,  thot  Win'bag's  pullin' 
the  strings  in  t'Cementies  strike  doon  Riverton  way — an'  thot 
it's  a  fact  t'Masters  ken  as  weel.  Therefore  Saundisson  will  no 
find  it  a  light  an'  easy  job  t'get  another  berth,  an'  therefore 


282  THE  ISSUE 

he'll  join  the  fight — thot's  a  moral.  Ah  don't  say  anythin* 
against  t'strike,  or  for  it;  but  ah  knaw  Win'bag  wull  be  in  the 
thick  of  it,  when  he's  clear  o'  t'hospital." 

"An*  his  hands  bein'  full,"  Mrs.  Surridge  beamed,  "he 
won't  have  no  time  to  think  about  Susie — or " 

"Nay,  Missis,  dinnot  mistake  me.  Ah  never  said  thot. 
Saundisson  is  a  man  thot  can  juggle  with  two  balls  at  once.  Ye 
must  be  kereful.  Don't  let  her  run  ony  reesks.  A  man  wi  a 
broken  arm  ain't  dead.  Meanwhile,  Susie,  you  write  t'Jack. 
Tell  him  ah've  seen  Dolly  Crassley,  a  gell  thot  knows  so'thin* 
or  ah'm  dreamin'.  Say  he's  t'coom  hame  as  quick  as  God 
Almichty  will  allow,  an' — ye  con  say  this  too — Tony's  gotten  a 
bar,  maybe  two  bars  forged  thot'll  fit  graund  rahnd  t'neck  o' 
Dunscombe's  murderer.  Tell  .him  that,  Susie,  wi  gude  luck  fra 
Tony  Crow." 

Mrs.  Surridge  leaned  forward,  her  eyes  wide  with  interest. 
"What  do  you  mean?"  she  questioned. 

The  blacksmith  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  and  produced  a 
small  oval  box  with  a  crown  in  beaten  brass  on  the  cover.  His 
face  was  puckered  with  the  strain  of  reticence.  "Ah,"  mean  he 
replied,  "thot  Mrs.  Saundisson  picket  oop  yon  box  an'  haunded 
it  t'me.  'It's  a  box  ah  loove  weel,'  says  I.  'Ah  saw  ye  searchin' 
fer  so'thin'  the  day  ah  metyebyt'deetch,'saysshe,  'is  thot  it?' 
'It  is,'  ah  said,  'an'  thankee.  I  wouldn't  lose  it  fer  dumps.'  " 
Tony  replaced  the  treasure  and  looked  at  his  friends.  "Mrs. 
Surritch,"  he  said,  "ah'd  been  fossikin'  fer  thot  box  here  an' 
away,  fer  months.  Ah'd  been  fossikin'  till  ah  was  seek  wi 
shame  at  ma  blindness — an'  then — eigh!  fer  t'curus  way  o' 
Proveedence — Mrs.  Saundisson  found  it. 

"Why  curus?"  he  resumed  with  a  note  of  pride;  "because 
thot  box  was  in  t'pocket  o'  t'man  wha  killet  Dunscombe — nowt 
less." 


TONY  PRODUCES  HIS  LINK  283 

A  long  sigh  escaped  Mrs.  Surridge  as  she,  with  the  others, 
leaned  forward  quick  with  expectancy:  "Tell  us!  Tell  us!" 
they  cried.  "It  wasn't  Elliott — it  couldn't  have  been — it 
couldn't " 

Tony  Crow  rose  slowly  from  his  seat.  "Nay,"  he  replied, 
"it  was  na  Elliott;  but  ah  doot  the  weesdom  o'  clack  sae  ah'll 
get  me  hame." 

But  to  Susie,  as  he  stood  with  her  a  moment  preparing  for  his 
walk,  Tony  whispered  a  sentence  that  sent  the  blood  leaping 
in  the  girl's  cheek.  "Ah  thowt  it  recht  t'tell  ye,  Lass,"  he 
added  as  a  final  shaft,  "seein'  ye're  like  ta  be  in  some  doot  as 
t'the  facks." 

And  this  time  the  girl's  cheeks  paled. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  STRIKE 

DECEMBER,  bleak,  rigorous,  chilling  the  world  with  an 
early  touch  of  frost.  Gales  from  the  northeast; 
gales  from  the  west;  black  unholy  gales  from  the  south- 
east; then  the  inevitable  fog  cloaking  the  land  while  nature 
garnered  her  forces  anew.  Sometimes  the  days  were  full  of 
steam  and  sullen  earth-sweat:  then  came  a  burst  of  wind  to 
sweep  the  poison  germs  to  sea.  Sometimes  an  interval  of 
crisp,  dry  weather,  and  mankind  sniffing  the  freshness,  dreamed 
of  skating;  then  more  fog  and  mire  and  foul  atmosphere,  with 
the  tall  factory  chimneys  belching  grime  and  smoke  into  the 
heavy  air,  and  no  breath  of  wind  astir  to  lift  it  off  the  town. 

The  river  running  beneath  leaden  skies,  took  the  tint  and 
appeared  as  a  swirling  torrent  of  mud  driven  shamedly  from 
the  streets  of  the  great  city  beyond.  Sometimes  the  banks  and 
seawalls  were  hard  and  crisp  and  rimed  with  frost;  sometimes 
soft  as  a  quagmire  and  nearly  impassable. 

Riverton  in  December  has  many  characteristics,  but  these 
being  the  chief  suffice.  No  man  having  lived  a  winter  in  the 
town  would  venture  to  dispute  them;  but,  during  the  winter 
here  portrayed,  additional  features  were  hideously  prominent. 

Gangs  of  gaunt  and  hungry  workers  thronged  the  streets; 
knots  of  haggard  and  unkempt  women  congregated  in  groups 
about  the  stagnant  thoroughfares.  Crowds  of  sullen,  embit- 
tered men  and  women,  workers  and  loafers,  short  and  tall 
starving  and  well  fed,  crowded  the  common;  and  standing  shiver. 

284 


THE  STRIKE  285 

ing  under  the  bare  trees,  hung  on  the  words  which  fell  from  the 
lips  of  impassioned  orators,  as  though  they  expected  to  see  the 
millennium  accomplished  in  answer  to  their  fervid  spoutings. 

Away  in  grim  back  streets;  before  factory,  workshop,  and 
foundry  gates;  before  the  entrance  to  numberless  wharves, 
building  yards,  gridirons,  docks;  before  big  yards  and  little 
yards;  before  iron-studded  gates  and  ricketty  trellis;  before 
the  office  of  the  man  who  rode  to  town  in  his  brougham,  and 
the  office  of  the  man  who  footed  it  thither  with  anxious  eyes, 
stood  little  groups  of  men  with  books  and  sometimes  bludgeons, 
waiting  to  persuade  the  would-be  workers,  and  those  blacklegs 
who  had  continued  their  toil  during  these  troubles,  to  desist. 

These  were  on  picket  duty. 

Farther  afield,  uptown,  the  wives  and  daughters  of  manufact- 
urers, tradespeople,  and  other  small  gentry  who  had  nothing 
to  do  with  the  business  on  hand,  were  mustered  under  the 
banner  of  some  wily  Samaritan,  to  eke  out  the  fight  with  pres- 
ents of  soup,  clothing,  and  food;  forgetting  altogether  in  the 
flush  of  action  and  pity,  that  their  president  was  using  them 
and  the  strikers,  as  a  lever  by  which  he  might  presently  climb 
to  that  paltry  city  office,  of  which  he  was  enamoured.  Forget- 
ting also,  that  when  men  or  dogs  fall  out  it  is  wise  to  hustle 
them  into  a  back  yard,  devoid  of  brick-bats,  and  let  them  fight 
it  out  in  comfortabfe  seclusion. 

Now  all  these  things  had  come  to  pass,  because  the  masters 
had  fallen  under  the  ban  of  the  trades  unions,  and  a  strike 
was  in  full  swing. 

Prominent  among  those  who  had  banded  together  for  the 
better  working  of  this  effective  mode  of  suicide,  was  a  league 
of  waterside  labourers;  the  boatmen,  lightermen,  barge  skippers, 
and  all  the  fraternity.  They  were  named  the  "Rivermen's 
Union,"  and  their  watchword  was  "Regeneration  of  the 


286  THE  ISSUE 

Masses."  How  this  was  to  be  accomplished,  none  of  the 
speakers  were  agreed.  Every  man  had  his  own  theory,  and 
the  personal  equation  was  a  very  strong  factor  in  the  genesis 
of  his  belief. 

Saunderson  was  one  of  the  leaders.  As  Tony  Crow  had 
predicted,  the  minute  incident  which  had  the  honour  of  being 
the  primary  cause  of  all  the  trouble,  was  his  discharge  after  the 
Bluebell  catastrophe.  The  Scorcher  had  made  no  question  of 
the  matter;  union  or  no  union,  strike  or  no  strike,  Saunderson 
was  ordered  to  go. 

That  this  was  only  a  peg  whereon  to  hang  the  gage  of  war, 
most  men  admitted;  including  some  of  the  more  thoughtful 
strikers.  But  Saunderson  held  other  views.  To  him  it  meant 
simply  an  individual  triumph  over  the  Scorcher;  the  triumph 
of  the  worker  as  placed  in  opposition  to  the  master;  the  triumph 
of  labour  as  set  in  antagonism  with  capital.  Saunderson's 
name  was  on  everyone's  lips;  his  personality  carried  all  before 
him ;  his  energy,  his  vigour,  his  decision  were  the  stepping  stones 
by  which  he  mounted.  He  was  eloquent  in  his  rough  and 
untutored  fashion,  and  quickly  caught  the  ear  of  those  who  had 
come  out  in  sympathy  only. 

The  man  was  as  indefatigable  in  his  pursuit  of  the  masters 
as  he  had  been  indefatigable  in  his  pursuit  of  Susie.  He  was 
as  unscrupulous  in  his  methods  of  attempting  to  bring  the 
masters  to  his  feet  as  he  had  been  unscrupulous  in  his  endeav- 
ours to  gain  Susie's  love  and  companionship.  For  the  nonce 
his  earlier  occupation  was  suspended.  Just  now  he  was  bent 
on  revenge,  pure  and  simple ;  with  visions  of  the  fame  he  would 
acquire  when  his  toils  were  accomplished. 

The  Scorcher  had  behaved  to  him  as  no  man  should  behave 
to  a  brother  man.  His  wife,  the  woman  of  lachrymose  aspect 
and  tiresome  methods  of  attempting  to  regain  his  affections, 


THE  STRIKE  287 

was  an  effectual  shield  against  the  want  and  misery  suffered  by 
his  sympathisers.  For  Mrs.  Saunderson  had  discovered  her 
husband  in  hospital  and  had  been  so  assiduous  in  her  care, 
then  and  afterward,  that  for  a  while  he  surrendered  his  manly 
strength  and  beauty  to  her  keeping — not,  indeed,  that  he  suf- 
fered remorse,  but  on  the  more  sordid  ground,  that  she  had 
money  and  could  aid  him. 

As  she  had  said  to  Tony  Crow,  "Money  works  wonders." 
It  had.  But  one  cannot  live  permanently  on  the  principle  and 
not  suffer  for  the  indiscretion;  yet  this  is  what  the  patient 
woman,  who  had  told  the  blacksmith  of  her  troubles,  was  doing; 
and  she  was  doing  it  simply  because  Saunderson  was  her  hus- 
band; the  man  she  had  loved  in  her  girlhood;  and  because  the 
bitterness  of  her  anger  was  all  eclipsed  by  his  helpless  plight, 
and  she  was  able  to  win  his  smiles  now  that  she  could  aid 
him. 

Thus  had  Saunderson  lived  for  six  weeks  since  the  strike 
commenced,  and  had  suffered  nothing  of  the  starving  anguish 
which  had  been  the  lot  of  his  followers.  These  things  come 
but  rarely  to  the  leader.  Saunderson  was  a  leader.  Only  one 
was  higher  than  he  in  organising  and  carrying  out  the  details 
of  processions,  picketting,  and  stump  oratory — and  he  was 
the  secretary  of  one  of  the  London  labour  guilds,  and  in  receipt 
of  a  snug  income. 

The  wolf  may  attack  the  stragglers  in  a  flock  of  sheep;  the 
enemy  may  bayonet  the  worn-out  rank  and  file ;  but  the  shepherd 
and  the  general  must  escape  unscathed;  else,  how  on  the  face 
of  God's  earth  is  the  work  of  leading  to  be  done  ? 

It  is  one  of  the  laws  of  civilisation,  and  even  those  theoristic 
humanitarians  who  aim  at  regenerating  the  masses  by  provid- 
ing pap  and  the  piano  for  every  British  infant;  who  would 
pantaloon  the  naked  savage  and  smother  vice  and  drinking  by 


288  THE  ISSUE 

Act  of  Parliament,  are  not  averse  to  wobble  their  comfortable 
carcasses  under  its  gracious  and  inspiriting  protection. 

These  things  all  happened  in  the  year  of  our  Lord,  19 — , 
but  on  the  2oth  of  December,  when  the  worn  year  was  stag- 
gering like  an  old  man,  heavy  with  the  weight  of  days ;  when  the 
world  had  approached  within  sound  of  carols  and  laughter  of 
Christmas,  sterner  events  were  in  train. 

Disaffection  was  beginning  to  appear.  Strike  pay  had 
become  marvellously  scarce.  The  gaunt-eyed  men,  with  their 
pinched  in  waists  and  their  jaunty,  devil-may-care  stride, 
were  beginning  to  melt  away  from  the  general's  care  and 
showed  a  tendency  to  go  over  to  the  master's  citadel. 

The  grim  misery  of  a  sodden  earth;  the  cries  of  the  starving 
children;  the  patient  look  of  suffering  in  the  women's  eyes, 
and  their  own  aching,  vacuous  misery,  which  no  bowls  of  soup, 
nor  promiscuous,  charity-found  loaf  could  assuage,  were  driv- 
ing them  thither. 

What  was  to  be  done?  Obviously  something  strong;  some- 
thing efficacious;  something  that  should  strike  terror  into  the 
hearts  of  those  grinders  of  human  souls — the  masters. 

A  meeting  of  the  well-fed  leaders  and  their  following  was 
convened  at  Riverton.  The  former  jaunted  thither  in  han- 
soms, the  others  crawled  there  painfully  on  foot. 

This  panacea,  that  panacea ;  this  proposal,  the  other  proposal, 
were  submitted  duly  and  with  excessive  circumlocution  to  the 
followers,  who  sat  or  stood  in  silence,  glaring  hungrily  at  each 
other. 

A  deputation  to  the  masters:  would  that  avail?  Sha!  it 
would  but  indicate  their  extremity.  An  appeal  to  the  other 
Unions  for  help  ?  That  would  take  time,  and  they  were  starv- 
ing. 

A  procession,  with  a  band  and  boxes  to  collect  subscriptions? 


THE  STRIKE  289 

Take  it  away!  A  flea-bite  on  so  huge  a  carcass,  who  would 
feel  it.  Take  it  away! 

Double  the  pickets  ?  Give  us  a  rest !  Take  it  away !  Take 
it  away! 

Obviously  something  must  be  done  or  the  movement  would 
collapse  of  sheer  inanition.  Who  was  there  fit  to  lead  this 
halting  crew?  Where  was  the  man  born  to  lead  who  would 
now  step  into  the  gap  and  put  life  into  these  dullards  ? 

Saunderson  was  that  man. 

A  hoarse  murmur  of  excitement  grew  in  the  secluded  river- 
side grounds  when  it  was  seen  that  Saunderson  was  on  his  legs. 
The  faces  looked  up  at  him;  pale,  gaunt,  with  stubbly  beards 
and  heavily  lined  eyes;  men  who  thought,  men  who  shouted; 
men  with  visions,  men,  stolid,  apathetic;  a  sea  of  white  faces 
with  wistful,  roving  eyes;  with  savage  eyes  searching  the 
unresponsive  sky  for  a  sign ;  waiting  mute  to  be  told  what  they 
must  do — how.  A  chill  wind  swept  through  the  ragged  ranks; 
the  river  babbled  in  ears  dulled  by  the  hum  of  machines.  They 
stared  before  them  and  saw  the  tall,  smokeless  chimneys  hold- 
ing lean  fingers  to  heaven;  pointing  a  signal  they  could  not  read. 
They  stared  to  the  left  where  lay  a  dim  vista  of  slum-land 
perched  on  the  river  wastes;  houses  huddled  together,  dark, 
full  of  smells,  the  kennels  which  sheltered  them  by  night.  A 
pestilential  neighbourhood  this,  abounding  in  beer  shops, 
pawn  shops,  gin-palaces,  places  of  amusement  for  the  sanscu- 
lotte of  our  cities.  They  turned  to  the  right  and  their  eyes  fell 
on  other  houses;  houses  surrounded  by  trees,  sleek  lawns, 
gravelled  drives — the  Masters'  land,  standing  high  out  of  the 
river  fog;  high,  where  the  air  could  move  and  the  sun  could 
laugh.  The  faces  looked  up.  Voices  mingled  in  a  shout. 
Saunderson,  who  knew  them,  whom  they  knew,  was  on  his  legs, 
standing  bareheaded  and  bowing  to  the  plaudits  which  wel- 


2Qo  THE  ISSUE 

corned   him.      They  shouted   their   joy,    and   he   lifted   his 
hand. 

"Fellow- workers!"  he  roared  from  his  eminence  on  the  cart- 
tail;  his  great  bass  voice  lashing  them  with  its  earnest  vigour. 
" Fellow- workers  an'  Sons  of  Toil!  Let  me  have  a  say." 

He  threw  away  his  hat  and  rolled  back  his  cuffs  as  he  faced 
his  audience.  They  cheered,  and  the  uproar  grew  boisterous 
when  it  was  seen  that  the  London  Labour  Secretary  had  resigned 
his  place.  Saunderson  vociferated,  waving  his  arms  to  mark 
his  points:  "You  are  all  like  sheep — without  a  shepherd,"  he 
asserted  in  the  brazen  tones  of  the  demagogue;  "you  have 
played  follow-me-leader  till  your  leaders  are  stuck  fast  in  the 
bog,  and  some  of  you  are  for  caving  in. 

"Hold  on  a  bit — I'll  go  alone. 

"What  d'ye  say  to  me  for  a  leader?  What  d'ye  say  if  I 
show  you  how  to  win  ?  to  win  on  every  point — to  win  all  along 
the  line?  an'  to  beat  those  Gawd-forsaken  fossils,  the  Aristoc- 
racy? They  tread  on  you."  (Groans.)  " They  starve  you !" 
(Shouts  and  groans.)  "They  grind  you  and  polish  off  your 
wives  an'  children  in  the  mill  of  perdition!"  (Loud  shouts 
and  yells  of  execration.)  "Why  should  they  revel  in  vice  an' 
pleasure  ?  Why  should  they  tread  us  in  the  ground  while  they 
roll  over  it  in  the  gilded  coaches  our  labour  has  found  them? 
Shall  I  tell  you  why  ?  Shall  I  ?  " 

The  shouts  rose:  "Go  on!  Go  on,  Win'bag!  Let's  have 
it.  No  more  foolin'."  The  noise  abated  and  he  resumed: 

"  Down  river,  on  the  Medway  saltin's,  in  frost  and  snow,  in 
rain  or  fine  we  dig  their  clay,  we  load  their  barges;  an'  in  frost 
or  snow,  gale  or  shine  we  run  it  up  to  their  wharves,  bucket  it, 
drive  their  cranes,  fill  the  trollies.  You  know  as  well  as  I  do 
what  this  means.  Sometimes  it  means  somethin'  more.  Some- 
times a  poor  devil  gets  caught  an'  comes  out  wrong  end  first — 


THE  STRIKE  291 

good!  it's  all  one  to  the  masters;  it's  all  in  the  day's  work; 
one  chap  less  in  the  world  to  cry  for  a  job — it's  nothing  to 
anyone. 

"That's  one  bit;  now  comes  another.  The  masters  build 
houses  on  land  they  own;  we've  got  to  take  them — the  wages 
they  pay  us  goes  back  as  rent.  They  hold  shares  in  the  pubs 
and  gin-shops,  the  co-operatives — the  wages  they  pay  us  goes 
back  in  dividends.  Ten  years  in  their  factories  fills  a  man's 
lungs  wiv  dust;  he  caves  in,  dies:  what  conies  to  his  wife  an' 
children?  Are  they  helped — are  they?  God  knows  they 
aren't.  God  knows  they  go  on  the  rates — or  starve.  What 
odds?  No  odds — a  bloomin'  workin'  man  the  less  to  talk. 

Sometimes  a  chap  gets  up  an'  makes  a  row  in  Parliament 
about  all  this.  He  makes  a  thunderin'  row,  because,  perhaps, 
some  poor  devil  has  been  nipped  between  the  buffers,  or  a 
crew's  got  drowned  because  of  rotten  sails,  or  a  dozen  has  got 
blown  to  Kingdom  Come  by  a  patched  up  boiler — good! 
There's  a  row.  The  Guv'ment  side  listen.  They  see  it  looks 
like  an  adverse  vote — they  say,  'That's  bad.'  They  say, 
'That's  a  damned  bad  case;  it's  the  worst  we've  heard  of;  what 
shall  we  do  to  remedy  such  a  outrageous  state  of  affairs  ?'  Then 
up  jumps  another  gent — Guv'ment  side — he  shakes  his  old 
head,  wags  his  pot  belly,  an'  says  he:  'His  Majesty's  Guv'ment 
accept  the  position.  They  will  do  somethin'  to  ameliorate  the 
lot  of  these  poor  workers.'  And,  in  the  papers  you  see  how  the 
remark  was  received  with  cheers — sheers,  my  sons,  is  what 
they  mean — sheers.  The  gent  turns  round  to  his  mates  at 
this  an'  winks  the  other  eye.  He  holds  up  his  hand:  'His 
Majesty's  Guv'ment  propose/  says  he,  'to  establish  a  Royal 
Commission  to  look  into  the  facks  of  this  terrible  case.  The 
names  of  the  gentlemen  who'll  serve  shall  be  made  known  to 
the  House  wivout  delay.' 


2Q2  THE  ISSUE 

"Then  he  sits  down.  So  does  the  Commission.  It  stays 
sittin'  like  a  hen  on  a  china  egg.  Nothin'  comes  of  it — only, 
mind  this!  only,  the  Commission  has  scotched  the  row.  The 
chap  that  made  the  row  is  dead,  or  sent  up  to  the  House  of 
Lords,  or  made  into  an  archangel,  an'  ask  I  you:  Why  does 
all  this  happen  ?  Why  does  it  happen  ?  Speak  up  who  knows 


A  shout  of  encouragement  went  up.  Saunderson  thrashed 
his  chest  with  his  clenched  fists.  "I'll  tell  you  why,"  he 
roared.  "My  sons,  I'll  tell  you  why! 

"It's  because  those  chaps  who  do  the  speechifyin',  who  do 
the  promisin',  are  all  members  of  some  firm  or  other  lookin' 
to  draw  their  dividends;  an'  if  it  don't  pay  to  alter  things, 
things  don't  get  altered.  Vested  interests  stand  in  the  way. 
Political  economy  stands  in  the  way.  Says  the  big  pots:  'If 
we  alter  things  our  dividends  will  wait.  We  can't  stand  that, 
give  'em  a  Commission.' 

"Mates!  I  say  we  find  them  in  soldiers,  we  find  them  in 
sailors,  we  find  them  in  servants,  we  find  them  in  the  sluts  that 
fill  our  streets — an'  what  do  they  give  us  in  return?"  He 
dropped  his  voice  just  low  enough  to  give  the  effect.  ' '  My  sons ! 
they  give  us  a  Commission."  (Tremendous  shouting  and 
Saunderson  expanding  his  chest  to  the  breeze.) 

The  noise  abated  and  he  resumed:  "I  say,  what  if  I  lead 
you  to  win  off  these?  Will  you  listen  to  me?  Answer  like 
true  men,  as  Gawd  is  your  Maker."  The  cheers  rose,  they 
filled  the  sodden  air,  and  those  few  constables  who  were  on  the 
ground  were  hustled  backward  by  the  mob. 

Again  Saunderson  shouted,  holding  up  his  hand  for  silence : 
"Listen  then:  I  understand  your  meaning.  You  take  me  to 
lead.  Very  well;  if  my  plan  don't  meet  wiv  your  approval 
after  I've  told  you,  shout  me  down.  I'll  take  a  back  seat." 


THE  STRIKE  293 

The  crowd  yelled  with  one  voice:    "Goon!     Goon!" 

"Hold  on  a  bit!  What  has  happened ?  I '11  tell  you.  We've 
fought  a  good  fight  and  we've  been  out — nigh  on  two  months. 
Two  months  of  starvin',  two  months  of  misery,  two  months  of 
Hell's  own  weariness — an'  now  some  of  us  have  gone  in! 
Some  of  us  have  started  suckin'  the  blood  of  the  others;  some 
of  us  are  worthy  of  the  death  of  that  cursed  traitor  Judas,  an' 
some  more  of  us  want  to  follow  suit. 

"What  are  we  comin'  to,  fellow  workers?  Are  we  a  nation 
of  Judases?  Are  we  a  nation  of  Blacklegs?"  (Howls  and 
groans  of  execration.)  "  Gawd  forbid.  I  say,  Gawd  forbid, 
an'  I  know  he  will  forbid."  The  cheers  broke  out;  they  rose 
high,  bidding  him  proceed. 

"Boys!  If  we  stick  together  we've  won  our  fight.  I  tell 
you  now — here,  that  we  have  won  our  fight  an'  that  we're  at 
the  back  of  a  great  and  splendid  victory!  Are  we  goin'  to 
give  in  then  ?  Are  we  goin'  to  the  masters  wiv  our  tails  between 
our  legs,  to  curry  to  'em  and  ask  them  to  take  us  back  ?  Why 
should  we?  I  say  there's  every  sign  showin'  that  we  could 
want — that  we've  won.  The  Board  o'  Trade  are  to  step  in  an' 
force  the  masters  to  accept  the  arbitration  for  which  we  have 
fought — an'  starved — an'  died!  It's  as  good  as  settled;  but 
there  must  be  no  waverih',  no  blood-sucking.  We  must  stick 
together;  you  must  follow  me!" 

Again  the  cheers  and  cries  broke  long  and  loud  across  the 
desolate  riverside  common.  At  the  end  Saunderson  was  seen 
holding  up  his  hands.  "  Wait  !"  he  shouted.  "Hold  on  a  bit! 
Keep  your  breath,  my  sons!  You'll  want  it  all  to-night. 
To-night,  did  I  say?" 

"Yaas!  Yaas!  To-night,  Win'bag.  To-night  an'  no  more 
foolin'." 

"To-night  it  shall  be.     To-night  at  eight  o'clock  we  meet 


294  THE  ISSUE 

for  our  constitooshional !  To-night  we'll  march  to  the  tune 
of  the  cries  of  the  masters.  To-night  we'll  carry  torches — 
alight!  flamin'!  burnin'!  To-night  we'll  give  'em  all  the 
scare  they  want,  an'  to-morrow  the  strike  will  be  done." 

A  dull  roar  of  applause  greeted  the  man  as  he  clambered 
from  the  cart  tail  and  forced  his  way  through  the  crowd.  He 
waved  his  arms  shouting  as  he  went:  "At  eight  o'clock! 
At  eight  o'clock!  By  the  statue  in  the  square." 

And  the  crowd  yelled  their  irresponsive  reply:  "To-night! 
To-night!  Gawd  help  the  mawsters!" 

It  all  sounded  so  feasible ;  it  all  sounded  so  just,  so  equitable 
to  these  poor  starving  wretches.  The  banks  were  loaded  with 
gold ;  in  the  masters'  houses  were  fires,  food,  servants,  comfort. 
The  shops  had  victuals;  they  had  worked — God!  they  had 
worked;  why  should  they  starve?  Why,  also,  should  their 
wives  and  little  ones  starve,  suffer,  die?  They  should  not 
suffer;  as  there  is  a  God,  so  also  is  there  an  end  to  all 
things. 

It  was  a  wolfishly  hungry,  a  stern  and  determined  crowd 
that  met  at  eight  o'clock  that  night,  when  the  year  was  within 
earshot  of  the  annual  carols  and  messages  of  peace  and  good- 
will. A  crowd  that  knew  its  wants,  boasted  in  a  leader,  stood 
shoulder  to  shoulder,  and  had  developed  enthusiasm.  A  dan- 
gerous crowd  to  tamper  with  had  the  police  been  quadrupled. 
Citizen  meeting  citizen  in  the  ominous  and  brooding  gloom, 
expressed  the  dictum  of  all  who  had  effects.  "There's  trouble 
brewing  to-night.  Why  have  they  not  sent  for  help?  They 
have  found  a  leader.  Law  and  order  has  none,  and  patience 
is  the  watchword  of  the  civic  dignitaries.  Patience!  and  the 
rats  are  swimming  the  stream." 

The  night  was  black  and  still.  Heavy  clouds  obscured  the 
stars.  Respectability  remained  indoors  wanning  its  toes  in 


THE  STRIKE  295 

comfort  before  the  blazing  fires;  nursing  the  theories  of  respec- 
tability— patience,  arbitration,  bowls  of  soup,  charity — things 
appreciated  by  the  indigent,  fought  for  by  loafers,  demanded 
by  the  Hooligan,  but  scarcely  the  ultima  thule  of  those  who 
desire  to  hedge  labour  with  a  ring  fence  through  which  they 
may  strike  at  all  outsiders.  It  was  warm  in  the  houses.  Fires 
were  a  luxury,  nearly  a  necessity  to  those  who  snuggled  by 
them.  A  bitter  night,  said  Respectability,  upon  which  to  be 
abroad.  Only  a  fool  would  be  out  on  such  a  night. 

Hark! 

A  drum — many  drums,  the  blare  and  din  of  a  tin-pot  band, 
playing  hideously  the  Funeral  March.  What  was  it  ?  Respec- 
tability, shrugging  its  shoulders,  nursing  its  theories,  listened 
and  answered : 

"The  men  on  strike  taking  their  constitutional." 

That  was  true.  But  this  time  with  a  leader,  with  a  man  to 
tell  them  what  they  must  do,  how  they  must  do  it,  when.  The 
midnight  march  of  the  unemployed  had  begun. 

When  the  hunger-driven  wolves  espy  sleek  horses  running 
before  the  sleigh  in  distant  Russia,  they  take  no  heed  of  the  fire- 
arms of  those  who  ride  behind.  They  dash  onward  with  snap- 
ping jaws  and  yelps  of  famine  to  revel  in  the  hot  blood  of  their 
victims,  and  know  no  halt  except  to  whet  their  appetites  on 
the  carcasses  of  those  of  their  comrades  who  have  fallen.  So 
with  the  human  wolf  when  lashed  by  hunger.  The  first  small 
fracas  serves  but  to  whet  the  appetite  for  blood  and  plunder. 
Then  the  crowd  goes  mad  and  rushes  forward  heedless  and 
drunk  with  passion. 

As  the  band  headed  up  the  street,  followed  by  the  motley 
crew  of  strikers  marching  to  the  tune  of  the  Funeral  March,  a 
braggart  dare-devil,  a  fool  of  more  exalted  rank,  stood  in  the 
entrance  of  an  hotel;  his  inner  man  warm,  his  outer  man  non- 


296  THE  ISSUE 

existent,  jeering  at  the  misery,  and  inartistic  semblance  of  the 
squalid  procession. 

He  and  many  others  had  grown  accustomed  to  these  silent 
protests.  They  had  happened  so  often.  Nothing  had  resulted ; 
never  would  result.  The  thing  was  a  picture  of  the  unappeas- 
able strivings  of  the  sansculotte;  a  cartoon  showing  the  idiocy, 
the  flagrant  apostacy  of  a  Government  who  had  given  to  Things 
an  education  and  forgotten  to  fill  their  bellies.  The  braggart 
shouted  his  disdain,  speaking  with  a  gesture  of  contempt — and 
instantly  almost  before  the  senseless  words  had  died  on  the 
night,  a  score  of  gaunt  men  had  dashed  from  the  ranks  and 
rolled  him  in  the  mud. 

But  the  business  did  not  end  there. 

From  the  hotel  came  the  click  of  knives  and  forks,  the  din  of 
popping  bottles,  laughing  voices — Respectability  enjoying 
high-priced  Christmas  cheer,  and  murmuring  the  messages  of 
peace  and  good  will  in  luxurious  content.  A  lean  giant  sprang 
forward.  He  beckoned  with  his  hand,  calling  to  the  stragglers: 
"What  ho,  mates!  Here's  grub  an' to  spare!  Lay  yer  sides  to 
it!  Cotton  on  to  it!  Get  outside  it!"  And  instantly,  as  if 
by  magic,  the  procession  halted ;  the  hotel  was  filled ;  a  fighting, 
struggling  mob  overflowed  the  doors. 

Those  who  could  not  enter  broke  through  the  windows  and 
seized  the  things  that  came  their  way.  Some  hustled  the 
screaming  barmaids  and  scared  waiters  into  another  room; 
others  ransacked  the  till.  Some  rolled  casks  of  beer  and  spirits 
into  the  street;  others  passed  out  the  more  accessible  bottles; 
and  all  who  could  get  within  the  enchanted  circle,  drank  and 
raved  as  though  indeed  the  millennium  had  come. 

Barrels  of  costly  wine  and  spirit  were  trundled  into  the 
street,  and  for  those  who  had  no  pots,  a  copious  stream  ran 
down  the  gutter  for  men  and  boys  to  lap.  Close  at  hand  were 


THE  STRIKE  297 

several  shops:  bakers,  jewellers,  grocers,  and  the  like.  The 
contagion  of  plunder  ran  through  the  ranks  of  desperate 
men,  as  the  ripples  run  over  the  river's  surface  before  a 
breeze. 

They  were  hungry — take  and  eat.  They  were  thirsty — take 
and  drink.  They  lacked  money — take  the  jewels.  The 
feeble  barriers  were  torn  down.  Men  clambered  into  the 
higher  places  and  threw  the  goods  broadcast  to  those  who  could 
not  come  near.  Gawd!  take  and  eat.  Gawd!  take  and 
remember  your  starvin'  folks  at  home. 

The  wolves  were  at  work  on  the  sleek  carcasses  of  the  horses 
now;  their  blood  thrilled,  it  burned  in  veins  long  accustomed 
to  a  turgid  stream;  gin,  whisky,  port,  brandy,  beer — all  had 
helped  to  fire  that  thrill;  all  had  helped  to  madden  them. 
Their  eyes  were  aflame;  their  hearts  were  aflame,  and  the  flick- 
ering glare  of  the  torches  shone  on  a  mob  whose  wisdom  had 
set  before  the  aching  misery  of  their  lives. 

And  these  things  had  grown  while  the  civic  dignitaries 
bandied  terms;  while  the  appalling  arbitrament  of  starvation 
aided  men  dallying  with  fate  from  behind  the  cover  of  their 
banking  accounts. 

The  handful  of  police  who  attempted  to  stem  the  storm, 
had  been  driven  early  from  the  scene.  Who  was  there  left  to 
interfere?  The  civic  dignitaries,  warming  their  toes  before 
comfortable  fires?  Who  was  to  lead?  The  dainty  civic 
dignitaries  ?  Someone  should  send  for  a  magistrate.  Someone 
should  read  the  riot  act.  Someone  should  send  to  the  Tommies, 
lying  in  barracks  at  the  other  end  of  the  town.  Chut!  The 
last  post  had  sounded;  the  Tommies  had  received  no  orders 
and  the  watchword  of  the  civic  dignitaries  was  Patience. 

So  the  mob  having  gotten  them  a  leader  or  two,  and  having 
tasted  the  fruits  of  unalloyed  triumph,  started  again  behind 


298  THE  ISSUE 

the  band  which  now  played  the  Funeral  March  in  turn  with 
"  See  the  Conquering  Hero  Comes." 

A  sullen  tramp  of  many  feet  echoed  through  the  night.  A 
flare  of  torches  and  the  voices  of  hundreds,  singing  snatches 
of  wholly  irrelevant  songs.  Frightened  women  peered  from 
behind  drawn  blinds;  through  the  chinks  of  half -opened  shut- 
ters. Groups  of  hurrying  townsfolk  raced  homeward,  and  the 
hoarse  shout  of  the  leaders,  who  had  caught  at  the  military 
words  of  command,  rang  on  the  still  air. 

"By  your  left,  turn!" 

A  thousand  or  more  passed  to  the  left  at  the  junction  of 
four  main  streets,  and  proceeded  at  quick  time  to  the  top  of 
the  road.  They  followed  the  band.  The  rest,  marching 
under  the  blood-red  banner  of  the  Mercantile  Marine,  bore 
also  to  the  left  in  obedience  to  the  quaint  command:  "Hard 
a-starboard!  Full  speed  ahead!" 

These  were  the  Regenerators  of  the  Masses,  and  they  swung 
along  jauntily  in  the  blaze  of  torch  light  to  the  tune  of  an  old 
sea-song.  They  chanted  in  a  minor  key : 

"The  times  are  hard  and  the  wages  low; 
Leave  her  Johnny,  leave  her; 
The  fo'c'sle's  a  hell  where  the  slime  does  grow — 
It's  time  for  us  to  leave  her!" 

Saunderson  led  here.  His  destination  was  the  wide,  modern 
road  of  Riverton,  where  so  many  of  the  masters  lived.  The 
Scorcher  had  taken  up  his  abode  in  Dunscombe's  nondescript 
mansion.  The  Scorcher  was  a  man  who  had  lived,  hitherto, 
solely  under  the  permit  of  the  Regenerators.  Now  they  had 
determined  to  make  an  end  of  him,  of  his  house,  and  of  his 
ways. 

A  swarthy  crew  was  by  this  time  busy  wrecking  the  wharf 
and  offices  which  once  had  owned  Dunscombe  as  their  lord. 


THE  STRIKE 


299 


These  others  marching  to  the  tune  of  "Leave  her,  Johnny, 
leave  her,"  had  the  more  delicate  duty  allotted  to  them,  of 
"breaking  the  masters  in  the  strongholds  of  their  vice." 

A  hansom  came  clattering  down  the  road  carrying  a  man  and 
his  wife  in  evening  attire.  They  met  the  band.  The  horse 
reared.  A  group  of  sweating  warriors  turned  aside.  They 
caught  the  animal,  unharnassed  him,  threw  the  driver  from  his 
perch,  and  bundled  the  pair  into  an  adjacent  garden. 

"Gawd!  You'd  go  to  pawties — an'  theatres — an'  there's 
men  an'  women  stawvin'!  Chuck  'im  aat — over  the  bushes 
wiv  'im!  Easy  on  the  lidy!  Pawss  'er  aat  gently — no  lawks! 
We're  aat  to  fight  men!" 

A  jehu  who  drove  "nobs"  in  evening  dress,  was  of  necessity 
a  blackleg.  "Dahn  wi  'im.  Chuck  'im  aat!"  Presently  he 
lay  stunned  under  the  wall;  the  cab  was  dismantled;  the  horse 
flying  through  the  night  into  the  country  beyond. 

Again  the  words  of  command. 

"  Steady  helium !  Full  speed  ahead ! "  and  the  flushed  crew 
were  on  their  way  once  more.  Torches  flared.  The  band 
brayed  hideously.  Drums  rattled;  and  behind  came  the  jaunty 
waterside  labourers  shouting  their  dreary  shanty.  The 
Scorcher's  house  came  in  sight.  A  yell  of  triumph  went  up 
to  heaven.  The  word  was  shouted.  "Down  wi'  the  gates! 
Razzee  the  lot!  Watermen  to  the  front!  Cementies  for- 
ward!" 

On  one  side  of  the  road  lay  Dunscombe's  old  home,  a  other, 
shining  from  the  windows  of  the  lighthouse;  on  the  gleam 
behind  a  lane  of  weeping  willows,  stood  several  large  houses, 
tenanted  by  masters. 

The  mob  divided  with  swift  precision.  They  broke  through 
the  flimsy  railings,  uttering  loud  and  persistent  yells  of  triumph. 
A  gang  of  burly  river-men  streamed  into  the  symmetrical  garden 


300  THE  ISSUE 

passed  the  shivering  Venus,  and  thundered  on  the  door  to  break 
it  in. 

Upstairs  lights  flashed.  The  shrieks  of  maids  and  children 
sounded  shrill  above  the  din. 

"Break  it  down!  Ram  it!  Fetch  that  plank,  someone. 
Flames!  how  firm  it  stands!  Easy  on  the  women!  Get  a  hold 
of  the  Scorcher — nothin'  else  I" 

The  door  stood  sufficiently  long  to  enable  the  Scorcher  to 
escape.  He  fled  incontinently,  carrying  his  women  folk 
through  a  gate  at  the  foot  of  the  garden.  Then  it  fell,  and  the 
greedy  mob  entered  sweating  to  find  their  vengeance  balked. 

A  roar  of  baffled  rage  sounded  in  the  house;  but  few  were  in 
the  mood  for  shouts  alone.  The  men  dispersed  fapidly;  some 
to  the  bedrooms,  some  to  the  basement  and  study,  where  lay 
the  safe.  But  this  was  locked  and  none  had  the  wit  or  time  to 
open  it.  Shouts  rang  high  through  the  house: 

"Wreck  the  furniture!  Light  a  bonfire  in  the  dining  room — 
empty  that  oil  about!"  Then,  one  more  enterprising  than 
the  rest  stole  through  the  upper  rooms  turning  on  the  gas,  and 
presently  the  house  stood  vacant  of  all  but  flames. 

A  dense  mass  of  stone -throwing  men  surged  in  the  roadway, 
bent  on  the  less  obtrusive  amusement  of  wrecking  glass.  They 
were  shouting,  singing,  mad  with  class-rage  as  they  viewed  the 
comfort  of  the  masters  in  close  comparison  with  their  own  un- 
doubted misery.  They  wanted  now  no  leaders.  They  had  taken 
grip  firmly  on  the  bit  of  opportunity.  Their  appetites  were 
whet;  the  smell  of  food  stung  them  to  further  violence. 

Who  could  stay  their  idiocy.  Not  Saunderson,  skulking 
unabashed  in  the  background.  Not  he  of  the  London  labour 
guild  and  the  snug  salary.  The  train  was  laid;  the  match 
applied;  leaders  were  no  longer  a  necessity  in  the  forefront. 

Dull  clouds  of  smoke  issued  from  the  house  that  once  was 


THE  STRIKE  301 

Dunscombe's.  The  fairy  castle  he  had  so  laboriously  erected, 
that  he  had  screwed  and  sweated  and  cheated  to  obtain,  stood 
now  clad  in  a  new  garb.  Flames  issued  from  door  and  window ; 
fiery  tongues  of  flame  leaped  across  the  garden.  Higher, 
fiercer,  redder  they  grew.  The  roar  of  human  voices  died 
momentarily  as  all  turned  to  gaze  upon  the  conflagration.  The 
men,  busy  wrecking  with  brickbats  the  symmetry  of  other 
houses,  paused  to  look.  And  in  the  silence  that  fell,  a  new 
sound  broke  upon  the  pregnant  air. 

The  blare  of  bugle  calls  in  the  barracks;  and  close  at  hand 
the  rhythmic  beat  of  galloping  horses. 

The  civic  dignitaries  had  acted  at  last.  The  cavalry  were 
out.  Who  led  now  ?  Not  Saunderson.  Not  he  of  the  London 
guild.  They  had  heard  while  the  roar  of  the  fight  and  the  fire 
had  seemed  to  baffle  all  hearing — and  they  had  taken  steps 
accordingly. 

A  swift  shout,  a  shout  of  fear,  loud,  intense,  went  up  through 
the  night:  "Ware  Swaddies!"  And  the  dense  mass  began 
to  melt  like  smoke  before  a  breeze.  Down  street;  up  street; 
across  walls,  through  gardens — anywhere,  everywhere,  out  of 
the  way  of  that  charging,  jingling  troop. 

But  two  or  three  thousand  men  cannot  stampede  with  safety, 
or  effectually  in  a  moment.  Those  who  had  made  most  noise, 
who  were  on  the  outskirts  of  the  mob,  who  had  been  busy 
hurling  stones — they  were  able  to  escape;  but  the  mass  stood  in 
savage  dread,  waiting  to  meet  that  from  which  they  could  not 
fly. 

The  jingle  of  accoutrements,  and  the  gallop  of  the  horses, 
grew  insistently.  A  shuddering  groan  ran  down  the  street. 
The  human  block  hung  poised,  impotent  with  the  weight  of  its 
own  indetermination.  The  charging  horsemen  were  upon 
them. 


302  THE  ISSUE 

Sabres  flashed,  scabbards  clanked,  and  the  burnished  steel 
shone  in  the  light  of  the  blazing  house. 

A  wild  shout,  half  of  fear,  half  of  bravado,  sounded  from 
those  wretches,  who,  unable  themselves  to  escape,  sought  to 
stem  the  racing  tide  with  a  volley  of  brickbats.  And  then  the 
clang  and  clash  of  battle,  the  dull  thud  of  sabres  used  flat,  an 
indiscriminate  turmoil ;  and  at  its  height,  the  rumbling  boom  of 
an  explosion,  while  all  men  held  their  hands  to  see  the  wreck  of 
Dunscombe's  house. 

The  flames  died  suddenly  amidst  the  roar.  When  next 
they  leaped  aloft,  a  skeleton  mansion  stood  roofless  and  window- 
less,  with  tottering  walls  amidst  the  blaze. 


CHAPTER  IV 
FINEM  RESPICE 

A  SULLEN  December  morning  broke  at  length  across 
the  battered  town.  Knots  of  men  and  women  stood 
talking  with  bated  breath  in  squalid  streets.  Strong 
patrols  of  police  drafted  hurriedly  during  the  night  from 
neighbouring  towns,  tramped  the  pavement.  In  barracks  the 
disgusted  Tommies  lay  under  arms.  The  town  hall  cells  were 
full  to  overflowing;  so  also  were  the  hospital  wards,  where  a 
score  or  more  of  the  wounded  were  couched,  thanking  their 
gods  for  the  change.  But  among  them  all  was  no  leader. 

The  damage  to  property  along  the  river  front  was  terrible. 
Several  yards  had  been  fired,  the  wharves  were  wrecked, 
offices  ransacked,  blacklegs  mauled,  and  barges  sunk.  In  one 
street  all  the  shops  were  windowless.  Property  had  melted  into 
thin  air;  everything  had  fallen  in  the  fiery  crucible  of  class- 
war. 

Elsewhere  in  the  town  business  houses  remained  closed. 
Respectability  nursed  terror  within  doors  and  watched,  cur- 
iously, the  magistrates  going  under  protection,  to  the  town  hall. 
But  there  was  scant  necessity  for  anxiety  now.  Last  night  the 
men  had  been  beaten  heavily  and  decisively.  The  morning 
saw  a  wavering  crowd,  a  crowd  trusting  no  one,  dreading  each 
sound;  a  crowd  without  leaders — vanquished. 

A  hurried  meeting  was  called  early  in  the  afternoon.  Saun- 
derson  spoke  again,  urging  them  vehemently  to  stand  firm. 
The  day's  sentences,  so  he  assured  them,  had  been  light.  It 

3°3 


304  THE  ISSUE 

was  a  proof  of  the  awe  in  which  they  were  held  by  the  masters. 
Masters  and  Magistrates  were  all  one.  They  dreaded  the 
power  of  the  unions.  They  dreaded  interference  by  the  Board 
of  Trade.  Most  of  the  prisoners  had  been  dismissed  with  a 
paltry  fine,  a  fine  the  unions  had  paid  as  they  would  pay  the  rest, 
and  to-morrow  the  others  would  come  out  in  a  similar  manner. 
He  begged  them  to  stand  firm.  But  the  men  shook  their  heads; 
they  argued: 

"No  use,  Win'bag;  the  chaps  are  goin'  in." 

Saunderson  grew  impatient:     "Who  says  so,  lies!"  he  cried. 

"Naa — Gawd's  trewth.  Hear  their  nairnes:  Margots, 
Tom  Boosy,  Sutcliffe,  an'  others." 

"Sutcliffe?" 

"Ya-as." 

"Gawd  look  askant  on  the  blacklegs.  He's  another  of 
ours." 

The  meeting  broke  up  without  any  arrangement  having  been 
come  to.  In  silence,  in  apathy,  it  melted  away,  like  ice  before 
a  fire,  and  Saunderson  went  moodily  to  his  home.  The  end 
was  in  sight.  He  sat  down  to  brood. 

What  had  been  the  use  of  it  all  ?  He  asked  himself  whether 
he  had  benefited  by  the  course  of  recent  events,  whether  he  was 
any  nearer  the  goal  of  his  ambitions,  whether  he  had  obtained 
an  adequate  revenge  on  the  Scorcher  ?  Again,  he  asked  himself 
whether  Susie  would  hear  his  name,  see  the  reports  of  his 
speeches,  and  recognise  his  daring  with  a  thrill  of  pride  ?  Would 
she?  Chks!  he  was  beaten.  Beaten.  Susie  would  never 
hear,  or,  if  she  did — Gawd!  what  a  crew  of  shufflers  to  lead. 
What  a  jelly-like,  quivering  brand  of  humanity.  He  could 
make  men  as  fine  out  of  a  little  cement  and  water.  Dummies, 
dummies  every  one — as  pulseless  and  invertebrate  as  a  worm. 

John  Burns,  Ben  Tillett,  Tom  Mann — a  score  of  men  he 


FINEM  RESPICE  305 

knew  had  climbed  to  fame  over  the  bent  backs  of  the  starving 
strikers;  so  he  argued  bending  over  the  fire.  Why  could  not 
he  do  the  same?  They  had  been  successful;  why  then  was  it 
impossible  for  him  to  win  success? 

He  sat  in  the  light  of  a  dying  day,  glaring  hungrily  into  the 
past;  searching  amidst  the  tangled  skein  of  a  life  more  than 
half  spent,  for  the  cause  of  his  failure — for  the  reason  of  that 
unsuccess  which  had  recently  so  horribly  dogged  him.  In  the 
North  he  had  moved  forward  without  pause.  He  had  been 
immune  from  the  disasters  so  common  to  men  of  his  calling. 
He  had  made  money  and  the  fair  sex  had  looked  upon  him 
with  smiling  eyes;  he  had  known  love. 

His  success  continued  when  again  he  came  to  the  Thames. 
He  was  skipper,  and,  for  a  time,  was  lucky  in  his  ventures. 
He  still  made  money:  now  his  money  was  gone;  he  was  without 
employment;  he  had  lost  Susie.  Never  before  had  he  loved; 
now  he  loved  but  could  not  gain  his  love.  His  friends,  the 
agitators,  men  of  standing,  men  of  position  and  assured  income, 
men  who  had  egged  him  on,  stood  aside.  They  flouted  him 
openly  and  attributed  the  disasters  through  which  they  moved 
to  his  foolhardy  bravado,  to  his  unconsidered  action.  His! 
The  knowledge  shook  him.  The  failure  was  his — it  was 
appalling.  He  could  not  fathom  it — dogged,  shadowed — 
devilish!  It  was — what  was  it?  Luck?  Fate?  What  was 
it? 

The  questions  leaped  again  in  his  brain  and  he  set  himself 
to  search  the  incidents  minutely  from  the  beginning.  The  night 
in  the  Gat  rose  before  him.  The  voice,  the  sheeny  and  tran- 
sient moonlight,  flickering,  dazzling.  Chks!  He  had  no  need 
for  search.  He  told  himself,  leaning  forward  and  watching 
the  shadows,  that  he  knew  precisely  what  was  wrong.  There, 
at  his  right  hand  stood  the  cause  of  all  his  futile  struggles. 


306  THE  ISSUE 

Always  it  was  present.  Forever  it  jogged  the  wires,  sounded 
alarms,  whispered  in  his  ears — intangible,  inexplicable — the 
Curse  of  the  Gat. 

He  rose  unsteadily  from  his  seat  and  glancing  about  the  still 
room  searched  amidst  the  cups  for  rum — for  his  courage. 
Then,  as  he  poured  the  spirit  into  a  glass,  a  chill  blast  swept 
in  from  the  street  and  he  knew  the  door  was  opening.  He 
turned  to  look.  His  wife  entered.  She  moved  over  and  sat  on 
the  horsehair  sofa.  Saunderson  watched  her,  and  tossing  off  the 
rum,  growled:  "Lumme!  why  can't  you  speak?  Why  are 
you  crawlin'  round  like  a  sick  snake  ?  You  give  a  man  the  fair 
hump." 

Mrs.  Saunderson  sighed;  she  replied  in  a  broken  voice:  "I 
did  not  mean  to  startle  you.  I  wish  I  could  help  you  more  than 
I  do." 

He  stared  at  her  through  bloodshot  eyes.  An  idea  took 
him  and  he  cried  out:  "You  can.  Sit  down  there.  No — no 
lights.  I  want  to  speak.  On  your  answer  depends  my  future 
— D'you  take  on?" 

"  Oh  Jim!  Come  away  from  this  place — come  away.  Never 
mind  anything,  only  come  away  and  let  us  start  life  afresh." 

"Wiv  you?"  he  questioned  brutally.     "Stow  it." 

She  seemed  not  to  hear,  and  continued:  "There  is  a  dense 
fog  again — black  and  grim  as  the  misery  that  is  on  the  people. 
The  strike  has  broken  down.  Men  are  going  back  to  work 
and  others  are  being  found  to  take  the  places  of  those  who  won't 
return." 

Saunderson  snorted  angrily:  "The  cursed  blacklegs!" 

She  took  no  heed  but  extended  her  arms  with  an  appealing 
gesture.  "Come  with  me,  Jim.  Now  when  everything  else 
has  failed,  I  ask  you  to  come  back  with  me  to  Cornwall. 
There's  father's  little  farm.  We  can  work  it.  Dear!  look 


FINEM  RESPICE  307 

kindly,  forget  your  troubles,  and  I  will  forget  all  that  has 
been." 

Saunderson  sat  gloomily  silent,  gazing  at  the  small  fire 
whereon  a  kettle  sang,  the  only  cheerful  note  in  all  that  sombre 
room.  His  wife  crossed  over  and  kneeled  beside  him. 

"  Jim,"  she  whispered,  "what  are  you  thinking  of?  Is  it  the 
old  house,  where  I  was  a  girl,  and  you  came  to  show  me  what 
love  is  ?  Do  you  remember  the  lovely  grassy  slopes — the  woods 
where  we  so  often  rested ;  the  woods,  where  you  took  me  in  your 
arms  and  called  me  your  pretty  Lily — your  gentle,  white  Lily  ? 
Do  you  remember  how  angry  father  was  when  he  found  I  had 
been  there  with  you,  and  how  we  laughed  at  him  and  you  said 
you  loved  me  and  wanted  to  be  married  to-morrow.  Do  you 
remember  it  all?  Dear,  come  back  to  it!  Come  back  with 
me  and  let  us  forget  all  the  misery  we  have  gone  through." 

Saunderson  scarcely  heard.  In  thought  he  had  been  stroll- 
ing down  the  sea-wall  at  Abbeyville,  where,  one  night,  two 
months  ago,  he  had  met  Susie  and  caught  her  to  him  as  she 
promised  to  be  his.  His  blood  flamed  at  the  recollection.  A 
sentence  fell  on  his  ears — could  he  go  back  to  Cornwall — to  the 
little  farm,  and  rest  with  his  wife?  Could  he?  Could  he 
return  to  this  while  the  possibility  of  gaining  Susie  still  lay 
before  him?  Scarcely.  Yet,  it  should  be  as  he  had  said. 
He  would  tell  her  his  trouble — his  fear,  and  let  her  decide. 
Then  if  she  too  admitted  the  power  of  the  curse,  he  recognised 
that  it  would  be  useless  to  continue  fighting;  he  would  go  away 
and  have  done  with  it.  He  turned  quickly  and  found  his  wife's 
arm  about  him.  He  shook  her  off,  speaking  roughly:  "On 
you  depends  what  follows.  Sit  down.  I  can't  talk  free  wiv 
you  clawin'  round  my  neck:  Sit  down." 

She  sprang  from  her  knees  and  settled  in  another  chair. 
She  was  stung  to  the  quick  by  his  brutal  repulsion.  "Go  on!" 


308  THE  ISSUE 

she  cried  with  a  queer,  hard  laugh.  "Don't  spare  me.  My 
feelings  need  not  concern  you." 

Saunderson,  engrossed  with  his  own  inexplicable  doubts, 
continued  without  perceiving  what  a  shock  his  words  had 
caused.  He  said:  "When  I  came  round  into  the  Thames 
eight  months  ago,  a  queer  thing  happened  to  me.  We  got 
becalmed  in  the  Deeps — nigh  to  Fisherman's  Gat,  an'  had  to 
down  mud-hook  or  drive  ashore.  So  we  anchored." 

He  spoke  with  the  air  of  a  baffled  man,  searching  amidst  a 
life  crammed  with  incidents  for  the  particular  key  he  required; 
he  fell  again  into  the  river  argot,  his  rich  bass  voice  filling  the 
room:  "It's  not  a  nice  place  to  be  kickin'  about  in.  The 
tide  runs  bad.  There's  sands  almost  all  round  you,  an' — 
Micky  Doolan,  he's  been  tellin'  me  of  the — curse —  an'  run  of 
luck  that  followed  the  Flying  Cloud  after  she  came  under  it. 
But,  there's  no  wind,  an'  we're  not  a  steamboat,  so  we've  got 
to  lie  an'  chance  it.  We  lay — an'  chanced  it. 

"Then  comes  a  thunder  squall,  rippin'  an'  tearin'  everything 
that's  loose  from  its  hold — an'  the  Bluebell  breaks  her  sheer — an' 
drifts — slow  as  flames,  she  drifts — across  to  the  Gat.  Did  she 
touch?  Aye,  she  did  touch:  for  how  long?  For  three  mortal 
hours.  Chks!  is  there  any  luck  to  come  out  of  a  deal  like 
that?" 

Saunderson  leaned  forward  with  his  face  in  his  hands.  The 
subject  fascinated  him.  He  saw  the  scenes  of  which  he  spoke; 
marked  their  inevitable  movement;  the  gradual  absorption  of 
self  in  greater  issues  unrolling  somewhere — somewhere — far 
away,  remote,  out  of  the  ken  of  men  lacking  knowledge.  He 
rubbed  his  brow  and  continued: 

"Afterward,  we  floated.  Then,  while  I'm  sittin'  on  the 
companion,  fhe  stroke  of  eight  bells  comes  across  the  Deeps 
from  a  steamer  goin'  north.  I  turned  to  look.  There's  a 


FINEM  RESPICE  309 

queer  kind  of  sheen  hangin'  across  the  path  of  the  Gat — close 
to  loo'ard  of  wheer  we're  anchored.  I  don't  mind  comin' 
across  that  sheen  anywheer  bar  the  Gat.  I  don't  mind  it — an' 
Micky  Doolan,  he  don't  mind  it  either.  Ya-as — it  was  curious 
— curious.  I  got  up — an'  stood  watchin'.  The  steamer  dies 
away  in  the  haze — an' — "  He  paused,  to  examine  the  shad- 
ows near  the  fender,  then  taking  up  his  glass  he  tossed  off 
the  remaining  spirit  and  resumed: 

"An'  while  I'm  lookin' — somethin'  happened.  What  was  it  ? 
Some  one  singing  out — a  queer  cry:  what  could  it  be?  A  chap 
fallen  from  yonder  silent  death  ?  It's  all  likely — yaas,  it's  all 
likely. 

"What  did  I  do?  What  would  any  man  do?  I  took  the 
boat  an'  scullied  seaward.  I  pulled  a  mile — maybe  two. 
There's  a  dark  patch  further  out.  I  sculled  some  more — an' 
came  down  to  it.  There's  nothin'  there  bar  a  water  sodden 
hatch,  covered  with  grass  an'  slime — green — loaded  wiv  barn- 
acles. Been  there  for  ages.  An'  out  seaward  there's  the  glint 
of  the  Gat,  an'  the— the " 

Again  Saunderson  sank  into  silence,  and  sitting  with  his 
chin  resting  in  his  hands,  gazed  steadfastly  into  the  glowing 
embers.  He  seemed  to  have  entirely  forgotten  the  presence  of 
his  wife,  sitting  also  silent,  and  watching  him  with  a  new-born 
anger  gleaming  in  her  eyes.  His  voice  rose  in  a  growling 
monotone,  as  though  in  answer  to  some  spoken  question: 
"What  did  I  do?  What  would  anyone  do?  I  came  back 
aboard — an'  there's  Micky  Doolan  waitin'  fer  me.  'It's  the 
Curse,  Skipper;  he  says,  'the  Curse  of  the  Gat,  an'  you're  come 
under  it.'  That's  what  he  says;  but,"  he  shouted  savagely, 
waving  his  clenched  fist;  "that  mate  ain't  judge  an'  jury;  he's 
not  omnipotent,  as  you  might  say,  although — yaas — I  know — 
I  know " 


3io  THE  ISSUE 

He  stopped  speaking,  and  drawing  his  chair  nearer  the  fire, 
sat  moodily  staring  into  the  flames.  His  wife  watched  him 
unmoved.  He  resumed  after  a  lengthy  silence,  in  muttering, 
broken  sentences. 

"The  voyage  ended  bad;  I  know  it.  Goin'  up  Sea  Reach, 
we  get  run  down  by  a  drunken  collier,  an'  one  of  the  chaps  is 
drowned.  Bill  Jeffries  it  was — a  good  chap.  A  chap  wiv  a 
wife  an'  four  chidren — all  left  to  stawve  by  Dunscombe.  Fair, 
ain't  it?  As  though  Bill  Jeffries  had  anything  to  do  wiv  it. 
Yaas,  it's — fair — fair  as  flames. 

"Then  comes  the  Stormy  Petrel  do:  A  derelict  in  the  Gat, 
you  mind,  an'  Elliott's  bent  on  gettin'  hold  of  her.  We  got 
hold  of  her — yaas,  oh  yaas,  we  got  hold  of  her;  but  there's  a 
row  first.  Then  Dunscombe's  killed — an' — an'  you're  come 
back.  Eh?  Shhh!  Who  in  flames  is  that ?" 

He  rose  from  his  seat  and  with  the  unsteady  gait  of  one  on 
the  verge  of  sleep,  crept  noiselessly  to  the  door  and  flung  it 
wide. 

The  fog  steamed  silently  in,  filling  the  room  with  moisture. 
He  stood  peering  into  the  murk  and  growling  savagely:  "Who's 
there?  Who's  there?" 

His  wife's  voice  fell  on  his  ears  speaking  in  hard,  ringing 
tones;  with  disdain.  "  Shut  the  door,  Jim.  Really  you  haven't 
the  nerve  of  a  cat." 

Saunderson  turned  and  looked  at  her.  "Lumme!"  he 
growled;  "I'd  almost  forgot  you're  there." 

"So  it  seems." 

He  moved  over  threateningly.  "What  d'you  mean?"  he 
cried. 

"You  were  asking  me  to  decide  a  question  for  you,"  she 
evaded;  "a  rather  momentous  question." 

Saunderson  regarded  her  passive  attitude  with  annoyance. 


FINEM  RESPICE  311 

He  crossed  the  room,  found  the  bottle  of  rum,  and,  leaning 
against  the  door,  took  a  lengthy  pull.  "  Yes,"  he  said,  "I  did. 
It's  this.  You're  better  educated  than  me — you  maybe  know. 
It's  this.  Can  a  curse  spoke  scores  of  years  ago — work  harm 
on  them — as  has  had  the  misfortune — aye!  for  that's  what  it 
was,  as  Gawd  made  me — to  cross  the  path  of  it  ?  Answer  me 
that  an'  I'm  done." 

"I  don't  believe  in  such  things." 

He  leaped  upright,  calling  out  in  fierce  agitation:  "Eh! 
Lumme,  that's  the  best  word  you've  given  me  yet.  You  don't 
believe  it  possible?" 

"No." 

"Nor  other  folk?" 

"Only  ignorant  people." 

"Then  you  can't  damn  a  man — body  an'  soul — for  years  on 
end?" 

She  replied  with  a  shudder  he  could  not  see  in  the  dim-lit 
room:  "Men  are  more  frequently  damned  by  their  past  lives. 
By  the  trouble  they  bring  on  themselves,  by  their  own  wicked 
actions." 

"What  in  flames  d'ye  mean?" 

He  stood  up  scowling  with  rage.  His  wife  rose  to  confront 
him.  She  spoke  without  a  tremor:  "Don't  be  foolish,  Jim. 
Learn  to  control  yourself  or  drink  less.  The  spirit  is  too  much 
for  your  head." 

She  answered  so  coolly,  with  such  a  hard,  metallic  ring  in 
her  voice,  that  Saunderson  could  only  stare  in  amazement. 

Was  this  the  terror-struck  wife  he  had  spurned?  Was  this 
the  lachrymose  woman  he  had  bullied  and  who  had  never  dared 
to  retaliate?  Scarcely.  Chks!  what  was  in  the  wind  now?  He 
waited  in  silence  for  further  speech.  She  watched  him  with 
anger-laden  eyes,  yet  her  voice  quivered.  "I  came  here  and 


3i2  THE  ISSUE 

found  you  in  trouble.  I  nursed  you  through  your  illness — for 
you  were  poor.  I  found  you  money.  I  slaved  for  you.  I  bore 
silently  every  reproach,  thinking  you  might  grow  kinder — 
that  your  love  would  come  back.  I  bore  your  brutal  passions, 
your  violence;  I  bore  all — hoping  you  would  see  I  had  no 
malice,  no  thought  of  the  past;  and  now — I  ask  you  to  come 
away  from  this  misery,  and  you  turn  on  me  like  a  tiger — like 
the  wild  beast  that  you  are — like  a  savage." 

Her  voice  fell  into  a  sneering  key:  "My  arms  are  claws,  are 
they?  Very  well:  find  softer.  I  am  lean  and  scraggy,  am 
I?  Very  well:  find  plumpness.  I  shall  trouble  you  no  more 
with  my  caresses.  I  am  going — home." 

She  passed  quietly  to  the  door,  opened  it,  and  let  herself  out ; 
but  Saunderson  took  no  heed.  Already  he  was  immersed  in 
thought,  steeped  to  the  ears  in  a  new  picture  that  had  unfolded 
before  him.  His  courage  had  returned.  Like  a  spring  long 
sealed  and  dammed  by  frost  it  broke  forth  at  the  first  touch 
of  sun  and  overwhelmed  him.  Fear  of  the  unseen  no  longer 
throbbed  at  his  vitals..  For  the  moment  it  was  gone,  and  he 
was  sane — sane  and  free  from  dread.  She  knew.  Aye!  she 
knew!  He  grew  bold  as  he  recollected  her  sneering  laugh. 
Curses!  Ghosts!  they  were  not — never  had  been.  He  swore 
it,  facing  the  fire :  glaring  hungrily  at  the  image  he  saw  there — 
of  Susie;  Susie  with  the  golden  hair  and  gentle  speech.  God! 
if  it  could  have  been — if  it  could  have  been!  If  he  had 
known 

He  sat  a  long  while  brooding  and  in  silence  over  this  thought. 
The  room  was  very  dim.  The  kettle  had  ceased  to  sing,  the 
fire  was  dying  slowly.  The  untrimmed  lamp  burned  low  with 
a  gurgling  noise  in  its  throat.  Very  still,  very  sombre  was  the 
night. 

A  footstep  thumped  the  pavement  outside,  and  he  glanced 


FINEM  RESPICE  313 

up.  It  drew  near,  halted  at  the  door,  and  a  postman's  knock 
echoed  in  the  silence.  He  rose  and  opened. 

"A  letter  and  a  telegram."  said  the  man.  "The  wire 
wouldn't  have  come  sooner  by  messenger." 

Saunderson  received  the  information  and  his  correspondence 
without  a  sign.  "Right,"  he  said;  "have  a  drink?" 

"Can't  stop,  Cap'n.  Big  round  just  begun.  Night's  play- 
ing the  dooce  with  the  patrols." 

Saunderson  closed  the  door  and  sat  down  to  examine  his 
letter.  It  came  from  a  friend — a  barge  owner  in  a  small 
way — who  offered  him  the  command  of  his  second  vessel. 
The  telegram  was  concise;  it  ran  thus: 

"Black  George  sails  to-morrow  day  tide. 

"SNUFFLrs,  MATE,  LIMEHOUSE." 

So — to-morrow,  day-tide.  Toward  dusk,  then,  the  Reindeer 
might  be  expected  off  Riverton.  Saunderson's  vision  had 
fallen  from  that  new  thought.  The  telegram  occupied  him. 

Sutcliffe  had  been  appointed  temporarily  to  the  Reindeer. 
He  was  a  blackleg — one  of  those  who  stood  in  the  path  of  his 
leader's  advancement;  one  of  those  of  whom  it  had  been  de- 
cided to  make  an  example.  He  was  a  man  who  happened  also 
to  be  his  leader's  personal  enemy,  a  man  who  had  cheated  him 
of  his  hardly  earned  gold;  a  man  of  whom  he  had  spoken  to 
his  wife  in  terms  of  the  plainest  meaning.  Chks!  His  wife — 
where  was  she?  Would  she  return?  Would  she  see?  And 
if  she  did?  What  then? 

Late  that  night  Saunderson  quitted  finally  the  lonely  cottage 
and  betook  himself  to  a  meeting  of  those  stalwart  Regenerators 
of  the  Masses  who  still  held  rosy  visions  of  winning  the  strike. 
It  was  the  last  time  he  met  them ;  the  last  time  he  ever  put  foot 
to  the  floor  of  the  home  wherein  his  wife  had  nursed  him  back 
to  strength. 


CHAPTER  V 

SNUFFLES 

A  BOAT  lay  idly  beside  the  Garter  Pier  and  for  two  hours 
a  man  had  appeared  to  doze  in  her  stern  sheets  with 
his  head  wrapped  in  the  folds  of  a  heavy  coat.  But  during 
all  that  period  he  had  watched  the  swollen  river  running 
muddily  seaward;  watched  the  fading  daylight,  the  swirling 
tide,  the  dwindling  distance,  the  growing,  snake-like  causeway. 

Far  out  into  the  dim  river  it  meandered  like  a  giant  centipede, 
shining  with  the  gleam  of  slime  and  ooze.  It  held  between  its 
crooked  legs  the  trailing  refuse  of  the  towns,  straw,  sticks,  rags, 
tin  cans;  making  with  them  little  whirlpools  of  eddying  scum, 
stirring  the  muddy  depths;  ruffling  the  surface  with  moving 
beads  of  foam. 

Beyond  the  causeway  the  tide  swept  downward,  pulseless, 
inert,  but  very  swift  It  roared  past  the  mooring  buoys  and 
they  twisted  and  rolled  back  upon  tightened  cables  like  giants 
in  pain.  It  hissed  past  the  hulks  moored  so  thickly  in  mid 
stream,  carrying  seaward  the  garbarge  from  their  decks,  the 
groans  of  the  cables,  and  the  shouts  of  their  crews.  It  heard  the 
jumbled  roar  of  cranes  swinging  coal,  of  winches  clattering, 
of  ice  churned  and  pulverised  in  the  shoots  of  the  fish  carriers — 
noises  like  groans,  noises  like  sighs,  with  a  note  of  despair,  of 
hope,  bouyant,  boastful,  inextricably  tangled — tangled  as  are 
the  lives  of  men. 

Above  the  causeway  there  towered  the  high  sea-wall;  a  thing 
of  mud  and  clay,  impossible  as  a  promenade,  picturesque  and 


SNUFFLES  315 

very  English,  as  a  sticky  means  of  communication  with  the 
down-river  Forts.  Beside  it  stood  the  Garter  Pier  Hotel, 
lonely,  isolated,  staring  at  the  hospital,  as  the  hospital  again 
stared  at  the  fort.  Nothing  else,  only  the  marshes,  the  ditches, 
a  far-off  range  of  hills,  and  the  steaming  marshland  breath. 
It  curled  white  over  the  farther  fields  at  sunset.  Gates  stood 
up  in  it.  A  mill  appeared  in  the  middle  distance  floating  and 
without  a  base,  its  wings  revolving  with  the  inflexible  purpose 
of  all  driven  things.  Reeds  stood  up  in  it,  swaying  heavy  heads, 
wet,  shining.  Then  the  mist  marched  forth.  It  surged  about 
the  distant  landmarks,  mounted  the  sea-wall,  and  flowing 
stealthily  north  met  a  companion  mist  creeping  from  compan- 
ion marshes,  unseen  down  there  where  the  centipede  pier 
pointed  a  crooked  finger  over  the  river.  And,  as  if  the  mist 
had  been  the  signal  for  which  he  waited,  the  man  in  the  boat 
uncovered  his  head  and  looked  about  without  concern.  He 
stood  up.  Saunderson's  heavy  frame  loomed  hugely  in  the 
haze.  Very  big  and  silent  he  appeared  as  he  paused  there 
shading  his  eyes  and  staring  into  the  blur  of  masts,  still 
shadowed  against  the  smoke  and  fog  of  the  upper  Reach. 

He  moved  from  the  boat  and  the  frail  craft  shivered;  the 
bubbles  floated  seaward  in  shoals.  The  pier  held  him;  its 
straggly  legs  trembled  under  his  march;  the  planks  quivered. 
He  passed  up  the  steps  where  a  board  like  a  sign  announced 
the  fact  of  the  causeway's  extreme  length,  and  the  Garter  Pier 
hotel  opened  its  maw  and  swallowed  him. 

Later,  he  came  out  accompanied  by  two  stalwarts:  two  of 
those  who  owed  a  grudge  to  the  turn  of  events;  who  believed, 
with  Saunderson,  in  the  inevitable  mastery  of  the  Cause.  And 
creeping  over  the  slimy  centipede,  the  trio  came  to  the  boat. 
The  boat  took  them  in;  she  marked  the  fact  by  sinking  some 
further  inches,  by  gripping  the  tide,  by  the  absence  of  irres- 


3i 6  THE  ISSUE 

ponsible  movement.  Henceforth  the  man  was  her  master  and 
she  slid  forth,  obedient,  willing  to  be  coaxed,  cajoled,  ordered 
by  him  sitting  in  the  stern,  by  Saunderson,  the  man  of  destiny 
no  longer  troubled  visibly  by  the  shadows  of  a  tortured 
mind. 

He  commanded  now  the  boat  of  one  of  the  river  pickets. 
They  moved  out  through  the  steaming  mist,  crept  past  shadowy 
hulks,  and  noted  the  roar  of  the  tide  under  the  bows  of  a  bluff 
merchantman  of  the  Ballarat  days.  They  swept  on,  angling 
to  pass  the  buoys,  slow  against  the  tide,  swiftly  with  it;  always 
enveloped  in  shadow,  always  silent,  until  they  had  obtained  an 
offing,  and  could  move  at  leisure. 

Across  the  water  lay  a  police  launch,  snugly  moored  under 
the  stern  of  a  hulk ;  but  the  trio  no  longer  feared  her  espionage — 
she  was  asleep,  hidden  in  the  dusk  and  smother  of  night. 
Riverton,  with  its  silent  wharves  and  deserted  factories,  was 
asleep  also  in  that  smother.  Official  Riverton,  which  had  done 
its  duty,  bragged  now  in  the  clubs  and  drawing  rooms  of  its 
prowess.  The  back  of  the  strike  was  broken.  The  beggar 
crowd  was  beaten.  Starvation  was  the  one  medicine  it  under- 
stood— starvation,  the  panacea  of  Capital  when  dealing  with 
Labour;  backed  perhaps  with  a  touch  of  the  spur  if  the  crowd 
became  intractable — starvation  had  won.  But  official  Riverton, 
gloating  over  its  triumphs,  gloating  over  the  verve  of  the  new 
men  imported  to  keep  the  machines  humming,  to  keep  the 
bank  accounts  on  the  upward  trend,  forgot  what  the  police  had 
also  forgotten;  that  in  times  of  dissension  between  masters 
and  men,  two  forces  often  come  into  being — the  opportunity 
of  revenge;  the  chance  of  paying  off  private  scores  under  the 
banner  of  the  fight. 

Ostensibly  the  picket's  boat  moved  out  to  seek  the  Reindeer 
because  she  was  one  of  the  Scorcher's  vessels  and  was  manned 


SNUFFLES  317 

by  blacklegs.  In  reality  Saunderson's  grudge  against  Sutcliffe 
was  at  the  bottom  of  the  whole  business. 

Had  it  not  been  for  Saunderson,  no  pickets  would  have  ven- 
tured out  that  night ;  but  he  found  men  whose  hearts  were  dead 
and  whose  shoulders  writhed  under  the  blows  of  fate;  he  found 
them,  nursed  them,  helped  them  out  of  the  till  of  the  Cause, 
and  they  accompanied  him,  believing  in  him,  swearing  by  him. 
They  could  do  no  more. 

The  boat  came  round  in  answer  to  a  touch  of  the  rudder; 
then,  paddling  easily,  they  lay  full  in  the  track  of  downward 
vessels.  The  tide  was  at  half  ebb,  the  river  crowded  with 
barges  floating  lazily  with  boomed  out  sails  and  flapping  jibs. 
Now  and  again  a  steamer  came  swiftly  out  of  the  haze  and  left 
them  wallowing  in  her  swell;  then,  as  darkness  grew,  little 
gleaming  eyes,  red,  green,  white,  sprang  into  being,  marking 
the  driving  shipping.  The  wheezy  fog-horns  redoubled  their 
cries;  the  weird  shrieks  of  hidden  sirens  filled  the  night  with 
jets  of  sound. 

Still  the  boat  with  its  silent  occupants  moved  stealthily  zigzag 
on  the  face  of  the  waters.  Several  black-sailed  Burmah-men, 
with  Invicta  painted  on  the  luff  of  their  mainsails,  passed  like 
wraiths  in  the  darkness.  These  sail  at  all  times;  nothing  short 
of  collision  or  dismasting  stops  them ;  but  the  Reindeer  was  not 
there.  A  snorting  collier  lashing  the  foam  with  her  half- 
merged  screw,  steered  wildly  into  the  void,  waking  the  echoes 
with  an  unholy  scream.  Barges  followed.  In  groups,  singly, 
in  pairs,  lashed  together,  they  passed  onward,  but  none  showed 
the  signal  which  "Snuffles,  Mate,  Limehouse,"  had  arranged. 

The  boat  drove  onward  carrying  her  dogged  crew.  They 
listened  to  the  clank  of  chains  and  heard  the  swish  of  the  leather 
scoop  and  the  shout  of  a  skipper,  under  Coalhouse,  digging  for 
sand.  They  passed  a  buoy  winking  a  dim  challenge  to  dis- 


3i8  THE  ISSUE 

aster  on  the  point — a  death  trap  of  the  river  this — and  swept 
onward,  rowing  sometimes  to  search  a  vessel,  sometimes 
driving  idly  with  oars  alert  to  move;  never  answering  a  hail, 
nor  taking  a  tow  until  the  tide  was  spent  and  they  were  some- 
where off  Thames  Haven. 

A  gloomy  outlook  on  any  dark  night  in  all  truth;  but  with 
the  haze  in  their  eyes,  the  raw  air  down  their  throats,  and  the 
profound  and  unspeakable  solitude  of  the  open  river  to  point 
their  misery,  their  lot  was  sufficiently  desperate  to  atone  for  the 
clamour  they  raised  when  the  World's  End  Tavern  stood  at 
hand.  But  Saunderson  was  obdurate.  Nothing  could  shake 
the  grim  tenacity  with  which  he  fastened  on  a  scheme  when 
once  it  was  planned.  He  moved  from  his  seat,  fumbled  in  the 
stern  sheets  and  produced  a  bottle  of  rum.  The  men  passed 
it  from  hand  to  hand,  descanting  on  their  chief's  sagacity ;  then 
lay  back  to  wait  for  the  flood. 

When  this  came,  they  started  once  more  to  sweep  the  Reach 
toward  Riverton.  They  moved  methodically,  from  point  to 
point;  they  no  longer  "drove"  with  the  tide,  but  steered  accur- 
ately for  those  anchorages  where  downward  barges  might  be 
found  at  rest. 

They  searched  about  the  paraffin  jetty,  off  West  Blyth, 
under  Hope  Point,  across  the  river,  below  the  powder  maga- 
zine, but  the  Reindeer  remained  unfound.  The  crew  became 
weary.  They  growled  together,  arguing  the  possibilities: 
"Have  we  missed  her?.  .  .  Surelie  she's  got  this  far.  .  . 
Looks  as  though  she  haven't  .  .  .  Steady!  there's  a  era wft 
over  there — pull  port  oar!  What's  that  on  the  skirt  of  the  tide 
— under  Coal'us?" 

"Wot  is  it?    It's  three  lights,  an'  the  middle  'un's  green." 

"Chks!  it's  the  Reindeer.  Go  easy — no  bloomin'  larks! 
Snuffles  has  done  'is  bit." 


SNUFFLES  319 

They  moved  swiftly  forward  and  in  five  minutes  had  brought 
to  under  the  Reindeer's  bow.  Saunderson  crawled  aft.  The 
mate  met  him  in  the  shadow  of  the  mainsail.  "  'Ad  a  doin'  ? 
he  questioned.  Saunderson  brushed  trivialities  aside;  he  said: 

"All  right  by  your  lights,  I  see." 

"Yaas; — but  old  George  ain't  'ere." 

"Oh '.how's  that?" 

" Done  a  bolt:  'ow  could  I  odds  it?  Some  bloomin'  female 
come  'er  'anky-panky  on  'im,  an'  'ee  cleared." 

Saunderson  stood  very  still;  he  eyed  Snuffles  up  and  down. 
"What  sort  of  female?"  he  questioned. 

"Tall,  dawk  eyes,  fluffity  'air." 

"Ah"  Saunderson  clutched  at  his  neckerchief,  fighting  the 
leaping  words — tall,  dark,  fluffity  hair!  Again  he  saw  them; 
again  that  frowsy  picture  of  a  gaunt,  unhappy  woman  swam 
before  his  eyes.  He  turned  suddenly  on  the  mate:  "  Get  your 
lights  in."  Then,  after  a  pause: — "Who's  here?" 

"Tom  Boosy." 

"Did— did  she  tackle  him?" 

"Ya-as;  but  Tom's  wife's  stawvin'  an'  'ee  says,  t'Hell 
wi  the  pickets:  blackleg  or  no  blackleg,  I'm  goin','  an'  'ee 
come." 

"Right !  You  keep  handy — an'  don't  let  the  chaps  on  board. 
Tom  Boosy'll  do  as  well  as  another  to — skear  'em.  They're 
all  blacklegs;  we'll  teach 'em " 

He  went  forward,  climbed  through  the  hatch,  and  passed 
into  the  hold.  The  mate  stood  on  guard  above  the  cabin 
scuttle. 

The  voices  of  the  night  sobbed  eerily  high  up  about  the 
hounds  of  the  mast.  The  river  swirled  and  eddied  moving 
Londonward.  Drops  of  moisture  fell  pattering  to  the  deck 
from  the  canvass  fluttering  in  the  breeze.  Once  or  twice  a 


320  THE  ISSUE 

grinding  squeal  echoed  in  the  stillness;  then  Saunderson 
emerged  sweating  from  the  hold.  The  mate  crossed  to  meet 
him.  "Wot  abaht  'im  dahn  aft?"  he  questioned. 

"What  about  him?"  Saunderson  echoed.  "Get  you  into 
the  boat." 

Snuffles  argued:  "Why — you  ain't  fer  leavin'  'im —  are 
you?" 

"Why  not?  He's  a  blackleg,  ain't  he?  Let  him  get  out 
as  he  likes.  He's  got  his  boat — what  more  do  you  expect  me 
to  do  for  him?" 

"It's  murder,"  said  the  mate,  "or  precious  nigh  to't — an' 
I  ain't  goin'  to  'ave  no  'and  in  that." 

Saunderson  swore.  He  urged  under  his  breath :  "He  has  his 
boat — he  has  his  boat;  she  won't  go  in  a  minute.  Get  you 
into  mine." 

The  mate  objected  still.  He  shook  his  head,  saying:  "I'm 
not  on.  I'll  go  an'  ca'  'im." 

Again  a  savage  oath  rang  out  as  Saunderson  saw  confronting 
him  the  thwarting  influence,  the  intentional  hindrance  that 
baffled  him  always.  His  anger  took  shape  as  the  mate  turned 
nonchalantly,  insolently,  to  go  aft,  and  he  moved  behind  and 
struck  him  heavily  under  the  ear.  "Lie  down,  dawg!"  he 
growled.  "Do  as  you're  bid." 

Snuffles  lay  down  and  Saunderson  hastened  to  the  boat.  He 
spoke  with  a  snarl.  "Cast  off!"  he  cried.  "She's  got  her 
belly  full— out  of  it." 

The  stalwarts  stood  up  to  receive  him:  "Wheer's  Snuffles?" 
they  questioned. 

"Stayin'  to  get  the  skipper  into  the  boat." 

"Right!    We  don't  want  to  be  seen — shove  off." 

They  moved  out  into  the  darkness  and  the  darkness  covered 
them. 


SNUFFLES  321 

Like  a  blanket  it  shrouded  their  actions,  hid  their  passage, 
and  masked  the  stirring  waters  until  Riverton  stole  out  of  the 
gloom  to  give  them  welcome. 

But  Saunderson  had  forgotten  that  Snuffles,  too,  had  been 
one  of  those  who  manned  the  Bluebell  that  night  in  the  Gat. 


Part 
C&e  Red  aauntlet 

CHAPTER  I 
A  WOMAN  PASSES 

NIGHT  had  fallen.  A  chill  winter's  night  with  the  wind 
moaning  fitfully  through  the  tall  spars  and  soot-black 
rigging  of  a  cluster  of  barges  lying  within  Limehouse 
basin.  Long  ago  they  had  hauled  down,  sailed  or  towed  down; 
now  they  waited  for  the  dock  gates  to  open — waited  in  readiness 
to  spread  their  wings  and  pass  out  among  the  lights,  the  tugs, 
the  steamers,  thronging  the  crowded  Reach  which  was  their 
home. 

Among  them,  lying  gunwale  to  gunwale  with  several  dumb 
barges*  was  the  Red  Gauntlet,  a  powerful  Essexman  com- 
manded by  the  whilom  leader  of  the  Riverton  strike.  Their 
crews  were  still  ashore,  taking  a  final  drink  at  a  bar  not  far 
distant;  but  Saunderson  had  not  joined  them.  He  moved 
under  a  shadow  The  strike  had  failed — he  had  pinned  his 
faith  upon  success.  It  was  dead — dead  at  the  hands  of  men  who 
should  have  kept  it  alive.  He  had  no  desire  for  their  company. 
The  hope  kindled,  momentarily,  by  his  wife's  words,  was  dead 
also.  He  had  lost  trust  in  all  judgment  save  his  own,  and  his 
own  he  doubted.  He  argued  that  there  were  some  things  no 

*Barges  having  no  masts — propelled  by  oars. 
323 


324  THE  ISSUE 

one  can  understand.  He  hobbled  amidst  scenes  requiring  the 
assistance  of  a  well-balanced  brain,  and  full  mental  equipment. 
He  hobbled  as  a  man  armed  with  a  crutch  hobbles  in  a  race. 
He  had  lost.  He  recognised  it,  but,  as  a  handicap,  he  recog- 
nised there  must  be  a  reason. 

He  sat  in  the  companion  smoking  moodily,  his  mind  bent  on 
the  efforts  which  had  failed.  He  searched  his  actions  but  found 
no  guile  in  anything  he  had  done.  He  worked  on  a  skein  ex- 
ceedingly difficult  to  disentangle;  twisting,  passing,  dipping; 
all  in  the  process  of  exculpation — self-exculpation.  He  saw 
nothing  abhorrent  in  his  course;  nothing  wanton.  It  was  the 
outcome  of  life,  of  circumstance.  He  knew  of  no  discipline 
but  the  discipline  of  brute  force;  knew  of  no  influence,  human 
or  divine;  had  never  learned  the  necessity  for  self-control  and 
restraint.  These  things  were  not  taught  in  the  schools  through 
which  he  graduated.  The  Act  passes  them  by.  The  "pay- 
ment by  result"  system,  has  no  use  for  them.  Teachers  wish- 
ing to  protest,  conscientiously,  against  the  inclusion  of  Doctrine, 
are  allowed  to  protest.  They  receive  absolution  at  the  hands 
of  a  new  Pope — a  multifarious  concern  with  many  heads,  much 
given  to  the  wagging  of  tongues  across  the  floor  of  a  House 
where  all  alike  are  irresponsible.  The  scholars  are  held  up 
like  toast  on  a  fork,  to  see  if  they  are  done ;  then  passed  over  to 
the  table  of  life  with  a  smirk  of  satisfaction.  The  exponent  of 
the  Rights  of  Man  shouts  his  grievance  in  the  courts,  in  the  park ; 
and  the  papers,  pandering  for  pennies  and  halfpennies,  acclaim 
him  Martyr — "God's  in  His  Heaven,  all's  right  with  the  world." 

Saunderson  saw  many  things  as  he  sat  there  smoking  and 
troubled  by  the  grievous  inequality  of  wealth;  but  he  saw  them 
through  spectacles  so  blurred,  so  out  of  focus,  that  only  a  dis- 
torted picture  was  possible.  A  moral  squint,  a  mental  twist, 
was  the  result.  He  it  was  who  suffered.  He  it  was  who  was 


A  WOMAN  PASSES  325 

misunderstood,  maligned,  laughed  at.  If  he  had  learned  how — 
if  Susie  had  been  near  to  aid  him — if  the  Bluebell  had  never 
come  under  the  curse,  supposing  always  that  a  curse  was  a  thing 
tangibly  possible.  Chks!  the  might-have-beens  stretched  out 
into  the  distance  like  a  herd  of  jackals,  all  clamouring  for  food 
while  he  stood  watching  with  an  empty  sack. 

A  voice  rolled  out  of  the  silence  as  he  sat  there  staring  into 
the  past,  searching  the  future.  He  listened  intently.  The 
cry  sounded  again — a  commonplace  hail:  "Red  Gauntlet 
ahoy!" 

He  rose  to  shout,  "Hello! "  and  the  answer  came  back  to  him. 

"Bring  yer  boat  to  the  steps.  There's  some  one  awskin' 
fer  you." 

He  considered  the  matter  but  a  moment.  He  saw  himself 
in  the  midst  of  an  appalling  trend  of  circumstances,  yet  had 
nothing  to  urge  why  he  should  not  go  ashore  to  answer  the 
summons  of  a  friend.  The  matter  stood  concisely  in  his  brain. 
Any  action  he  might  take  could  not  alter  his  future.  The  end 
was  fixed,  immutable,  perhaps  implacable — a  matter  arranged 
by  powers  of  which  he  had  no  conception.  For  some  reason 
they  were  antagonistic  to  his  advancement ;  to  his  movement  up 
that  ladder  he  had  set  himself  to  climb.  It  was  useless  to  argue ; 
useless  to  contend;  he  was  weary  of  the  whole  business — un- 
utterably weary. 

He  stepped  into  the  boat,  sculled  ashore,  and  ascending  the 
steps  stood  looking  for  signs  of  a  visitor.  No  one  appeared. 
Far  up  the  quay  a  man  walked;  farther  still,  puppets  worked 
in  the  docks,  puppets  who  shouted,  hurrying  like  driven  dogs, 
struggling  in  the  light  of  glaring  arc  lamps  to  earn  their  mead 
of  paltry  shillings.  They  deserved  their  fate.  He  argued 
that  they  should  have  joined  issue  with  him;  then  would  they 
have  been  masters  and  not  slaves.  Near  at  hand  was  silence. 


326  THE  ISSUE 

The  clustered  barges  rubbed  sides  like  sheep  on  a  cold  night. 
Across  the  way  were  lonely  capstans,  a  flagstaff;  the  dock 
gatemen's  cottages.  The  place  seemed  utterly  vacant. 
Saunderson  growled  angrily.  He  turned  to  retrace  his  foot- 
steps, then  a  soft  voice,  calling  from  a  dark  angle  of  the  shed, 
whispered  his  name. 

He  recognised  the  tones  instantly  and  twisted  about  with 
sudden  passion.  It  was  a  woman's  voice — the  voice  of  his 
wife. 

"You!"  he  cried  approaching.  "What  d'you  want  wiv  me 
now?" 

She  held  up  her  hands  whispering:  "I  have  come  to  warn 
you.  I  have  come  to  warn  you." 

"To  warn  me?  How  much  more  of  your  foolin'  d'you  ex- 
pect me  to  stand?"  he  shouted  the  questions  angrily,  and  again 
she  lifted  her  hand. 

"  Hist !     Speak  quietly.     Wait  till  that  man  is  out  of  hearing." 

He  stood  mute,  listening  to  the  failing  steps.  They  died, 
and  Mrs.  Saunderson  resumed:  "There's  been  an  'accident' 
down  river,"  she  whispered;  " and  now  the  Reindeer  has  been 
lifted — they  find  she  was  scuttled.  Who  were  the  men  that 
did  this,  Jim?" 

He  glanced  about,  marking  the  heavy  solitude  and  his  reply 
fell  softly  under  his  breath:  "I  suppose  you  don't  want  me  to 
answer  that.  I  suppose  you  know — else — what " 

"I  do  know.  God  help  me,  I  know  too,  that — some  of  her 
crew  were  drowned — drowned." 

He  swayed  unsteadily  on  the  wet  stones.  A  sentence  es- 
caped him.  "Ah!  they  were  bigger  fools  than  I  took  them 
for."  Then,  after  a  tense  pause:  "  An' you'll  give  information  ?" 

She  looked  up  with  a  laugh,  imperious,  incongruous:  "Why 
should  I?  Besides,  I  could  not  give  evidence.  Even  if  I 


A  WOMAN  PASSES  327 

could,  why  should  I  ?  No,  I  came  here  to  warn  you — nothing 
more." 

Saunderson  watched  her  with  a  dogged  frown.  He  ques- 
tioned her  motives.  He  could  not  comprehend  them;  they 
were  a  sealed  book — Sanscrit.  "You  ain't  fond  of  me,"  he 
suggested.  "Why  don't  you  fix  me  off  an'  have  done  wiv  it?" 

"Because  I  loved  you,  Jim;  because  you  were  my  lover  in 
days  long  past;  because  I  am  your  wife  and  cannot  do  it." 

"You  expect  me  to  swallow  that?"  he  growled,  still  watching 
with  that  set  frown.  "You  think  I'm  fool  enough  to  take  that 
in  ?  What's  to  prevent  me  chuckin'  you  an'  all  you  know  into 
the  dock  an'  finishin'  the  business?"  he  threw  out  the  sug- 
gestion in  bluster  and  without  thought. 

She  faced  him  scornfully.  "Your  own  cowardice,  Jim — 
nothing  else." 

"My  cowardice!"  he  shouted,  clutching  her  arm.  "Chks! 
you  don't  know  me.  Who's  to  hear  you;  who's  to  know  I've 
put  you  away  down  the  cellar?  It's  dark.  There's  no  one 
about.  How  am  I  to  trust  you  now  you  know  such  a  thunderin' 
sight  of  knowledge  ?  Eh,  answer  me  that  ?  " 

She  struggled  free  and  confronted  him  with  passionate  eyes: 
"You  dare  not  do  it  because  you  are  afraid  of  things  unseen. 
You  dare  not  do  it  because,  when  I  am  dead,  I  shall  haunt 
you — you  will  never  be  free.  Waking  or  sleeping  your  coward 
mind  will  tremble  before  the  memory  of  the  woman  you  cursed 
with  your  love,  with  your  life,  and  your  miserable  unbelief — do 
you  understand?" 

He  faced  her  in  silence. 

"On  the  river,  when  it  is  dark,  I  shall  be  at  your  side  as  you 
steer  your  vessel.  In  your  sleep  I  shall  be  with  you  flitting 
unseen;  in  lonely  roads  and  silent  anchorages  I  shall  be  near 
you — driving  you  to  the  hell  you  are  always  talking  of.  Come 


328  THE  ISSUE 

— exercise  your  strength.  Put  me  down  the  cellar.  You  dare 
not.  Pah!  big  man,  you  are  a  coward." 

Saunderson  shrank  back.  He  was  appalled  by  her  vehe- 
mence. The  sweat  stood  cold  on  his  brow.  He  leaned 
against  the  shed-side  without  a  word  in  self-defence,  without  a 
sentence  in  self-justification.  Mrs.  Saunderson  saw  her  ad- 
vantage and  moved  near,  speaking  very  slowly. 

"I  came  to  see  and  to  warn  you,  because  I  loved  you — once, 
and  because  I  thought  you  might  wish  to  leave.  But  now  I 
see  that  you  will  not  do  so,  that  you  will  continue  as  you  began. 
Stay,  the  air  is  prophetic  to-night — eh,  Jim?  You  agree? 
Good:  then  I  will  prophesy.  You  see  it  is  so  much  easier  to 
act  when  one  knows  what  is  inevitable — inevitable,  mind.  You 
can't  shirk  fate.  You  can't  get  rid  of  the  consequences  of 
your  wicked  actions.  They  follow  you.  That  is  why  men 
call  them  the  inevitable.  You  know  what  that  American  says  ? 
No?  Well,  I'll  tell  you: 

"  'If  wrong  you  do,  if  false  you  play 
In  summer  among  the  flowers, 
You  must  atone,  you  shall  repay, 
In  winter  among  the  showers.' " 

She  broke  off  and  for  a  moment  appeared  to  meditate  de- 
parture, then  with  a  swift  turn  drew  nearer,  lifting  one  finger. 

"Listen,"  she  said,  "you  will  win  that  girl  you  think  you 
love  so  well — you  will  win  her  and  you  will  die.  But  you  will 
win  her  first.  What  matters  what  comes  afterward  or  how 
soon?  Death!  What  is  death  if  you  have  had  what  you  have 
sought  so  long — eh,  Jim?" 

Again  she  broke  off  with  that  abrupt  laugh  he  found  so 
appalling,  and  took  a  step  again  in  his  direction. 

"But  many  things  will  happen  before  that — so  take  heart, 
big  man.  I  shall  not  be  here  to  annoy  you  with  my  love.  I 


A  WOMAN  PASSES  329 

shall  not  be  here  to  hinder  you.  Why?  Listen,  I  will  tell 
you." 

She  leaned  forward  gazing  into  his  downcast  face. 

"Jim,"  she  whispered  close  in  his  ear,  "I  am  going  on  a  long 
journey  to-night.  I  shall  never  see  you  again." 

He  started  backward  uncertain  of  her  meaning. 

"Do  you  remember  how  you  left  me  last  time?"  she  ques- 
tioned in  a  new  tone,  the  banter  gone.  "  Do  you?  There  was 
a  child  then.  It  died,  Jim.  I  was  glad  it  died,  because  I  was 
alone  and  miserable.  Now  there  would  be  a  child  again.  But 
I  do  not  wish  to  see  it.  I  can  never  want  to  see  children  again. 
So  I  am  going  away — and  you  will  be  free  to  run  your  course 
alone.  Will  you  say  good-bye  ?  Will  you  wish  me  luck  on  my 
journey?  It  isn't  much  to  ask;  but  the  road  is  difficult.  Wish 
me  luck,  Jim,  for  the  sake  of  what  has  been." 

She  faced  him,  holding  out  her  hand;  but  the  pleading 
intonation  had  done  its  work.  He  no  longer  feared.  He  drew 
away  with  an  oath. 

"Luck!"  he  shouted  almost  fiercely.  "Why  should  I  wish 
you  luck?  You've  been  my  curse — You've  been  my  curse. 
I  wish  to  Gawd  I'd  never  set  eyes  on  you."  He  advanced 
toward  her  with  a  gesture  so  menacing  that,  holding  high 
her  hand,  she  retreated  slowly  toward  the  dock-sill. 

"Push  me!"  she  cried  in  bitter  sarcasm.  "We  are  alone, 
big  man.  It  will  save  that  girl  you  think  you  love,  for  then, 
Jim,  you  will  have  killed  your  wife  and  unborn  child." 

Again  he  sprang  back  and  remained  watching.  "You've 
been  my  curse — my  curse!"  he  reiterated. 

"Passion  is  your  curse,"  she  mouthed.  "Psh!  I  fancy  you 
understand." 

Saunderson  stood  in  the  shadow  of  a  shed.  He  noticed  the 
lamplight  dancing  in  the  pavement  pools  and  saw  that  the 


330  THE  ISSUE 

water  rilled  up  the  stones.  In  one  place  oil  had  fallen.  Here 
the  water  bore  no  sign  of  movement,  but  it  threw  a  slimy  stain 
upon  the  concrete,  like  the  track  of  snails,  slugs,  worms.  He 
lifted  his  gaze  and  saw  that  he  was  alone. 

Far  up  the  path  a  figure  moved. 

He  might  have  pursued  this  woman,  beaten  her,  thrown  her 
into  the  dock,  or  done  any  of  the  hundred  and  one  things  his 
superior  strength  permitted;  but  he  did  not  do  so.  He  re- 
turned to  the  barge  instead.  There  was  rum  in  the  locker. 
His  courage  ebbed.  It  was  of  the  sort  that  requires  the  aid  of 
stimulants. 

He  slunk  into  the  narrow  cabin  like  a  whipped  cur  and  made 
for  the  liquor.  Hah!  A  draught  revived  him.  He  lighted 
his  pipe  and  took  a  seat  on  the  companion  stairs.  The  clock 
at  the  dock-head  struck  the  hour — twelve  sonorous  strokes, 
and  silence  ensued.  The  dying  fire  cracked  and  fell  in  with  a 
crash. 

Saunderson  rose  from  his  seat  and  approached  the  stove. 
He  kicked  it,  growling  furtively  of  the  noise,  and  the  cinders 
leaped  into  a  blaze.  He  examined  the  cabin;  it  was  narrow, 
stifling.  He  was  alone.  Nothing  moved.  He  decided  that 
he  required  air — air  and  freedom  to  think.  He  crept  to  the 
stair-head  and  stood  leaning  over  the  half-drawn  scuttle. 

The  night  was  black  now,  with  a  misty  misery  of  thin,  cold 
rain.  The  nearer  electric  lights  loomed  in  sullen  splotches, 
blinking  like  giant  cats  in  the  stagnant  air.  The  wind  sobbed 
eerily  through  the  rigging  towering  so  high  into  nothingness; 
everywhere  were  voices,  everywhere  shadows — shadows  that 
moved,  gesticulated,  spoke.  Reiterating  the  words  he  had 
heard,  "You  will  win  that  girl  you  think  you  love — you 
will  win  her,"  he  asked  himself  how  that  could  be  possible 
while  his  wife  lived,  and  a  further  sentence  leaped  in  the  gray 


A  WOMAN  PASSES  33 1 

water  scintillating  under  the  lamp — "You  will  die."  Die? 
Of  course  he  would  die.  He  admitted  it,  gripping  hands  on 
the  edge  of  the  scuttle.  All  men  die  once.  His  end  was  doubly 
assured — doubly.  He  was  certain  of  that.  No  other  certitude 
appeared.  He  groaned  aloud,  praying  that  he  had  never  met 
this  woman — that  she  had  died  as  had  been  said — that  Susie 
had  loved  him — Susie  who  could  have  helped,  who  could  have 
aided  him  in  that  climb  he  desired.  "If,"  he  argued  it  with 

clenched  teeth,  "if  that  woman  had "  and  stopped  with  a 

sudden  thrill.  ' '  Hist !  what's  that  ?  " 

He  leaped  to  his  feet  as  a  shriek  rent  the  air.  The  noise  of 
splashing  water  fell  on  his  ears;  the  shouts  of  a  score  of  people. 
All  the  mob  from  the  neighbouring  bars  was  afoot  racing  to- 
ward the  dock  gates.  He  stood  in  abject  terror,  his  knees 
trembling.  Someone  had  fallen  overboard.  Someone  was 
drowning.  Who?  He  listened  intently,  clutching  at  the 
scuttle,  and  the  truth  came  to  him;  came  in  a  burst  of  reve- 
lation, dazzling,  blinding,  pointing  the  meaning  of  her  words. 
He  sprang  from  the  companion-way,  shouting  his  apprehension 
to  the  winds: 

"Mates  ahoy!  Ahoy!  Where  on  Gawd's  earth's  a  livin' 
soul!  Ahoy! "Ahoy!" 

He  climbed  the  sides  of  a  high  dumb  barge  and  looked  below. 
It  was  tenantless.  He  jumped  a  watery  stretch  and  landed 
safely  on  another  vessel's  deck,  still  giving  tongue  to  fear: 
"Ahoy!  Ahoy!" 

A  growl  sounded  in  a  cabin  near  at  hand:  "Wot's  wrong? 
Wot's  wrong  then?" 

"Is  that  Tom  Chudleigh?" 

"Yaas." 

"Come  an'  swear  to  me.  Man!  get  your  lamp  an'  see  it's 
me." 


332 


THE  ISSUE 


"There's  no  manner  o'  doubt  abaht  that.  Win'bag.  Yer 
lungs  is  proof.  Wot's  wrong  ?  " 

Saunderson  slid  to  the  barge's  deck  and  sat  down  shuddering. 

"Got  a  drink  aboard?"  he  gasped.  "I'm  fair  dead  wiv 
skear.  There's  someone  fallen  into  the  dock.  I  couldn't  get 
nigh  her.  You  see  me,  Tom — you  see  me  ?" 

"I  see  you  right  enough,  mate.    Take  a  swill  at  this." 

The  man's  courage  revived  at  the  taste  of  rum  and  with  the 
knowledge  that  he  was  no  longer  alone.  The  skipper  eyed  him 
curiously: 

"We'd  best  get  acrost  an'  see  if  we  can  do  anythin',"  he 
remarked. 

"Aye;  I'll  go  wiv  you.  You'll  bear  me  out  where  I  was 
when  it  happened." 

"Right;  I'll  bear  you  out." 

By  the  time  they  had  rowed  to  the  steps  and  come  to  the 
bridge  at  the  far  end  of  the  lock,  Saunderson  had  recovered. 
He  strode  with  a  jaunty  air.  The  cries  of  the  people,  still 
gathering  from  the  farther  shipping,  had  no  terrors  for  him. 
He  hastened,  with  his  friend,  and  came  to  the  bridge  where 
stood  a  dismal  group  of  men  and  women,  leaning  over  the  dock 
sill. 

A  limp  bundle  of  humanity  was  being  lifted  from  a  boat 
which  lay  beneath.  Saunderson  pressed  forward.  He  helped 
to  clear  a  space,  then  kneeled  on  the  stones  in  search. 

A  woman  neatly  dressed  in  black;  tall,  well  developed, 
with  fluffity,  bedraggled  hair,  rested  at  his  feet — Mrs.  Saunder- 
son, her  long  journey  already  ended. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  FREEDOM  OF  A  SLAVE 

LIKE  the  wolf  when  held  at  bay,  so  Saunderson  stood  his 
ground  and  fought  his  fight  with  that  grim  tenacity  of 
purpose  which  is  so  characteristic  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  race 
when  hard  beset. 

A  glance  into  this  man's  face  should  have  been  enough  to 
indicate  his  temperament.  The  eyes  alone  were  sufficient  to 
betray  him,  yet,  when  he  stood  to  give  evidence  at  the  inquest 
on  his  wife's  body,  his  rough  eloquence  so  warped  the  minds 
of  twelve  good  men,  that  in  the  end  he  found  himself  the  re- 
cipient of  a  sympathetic  rider,  in  addition  to  the  usual  finding. 
This  was  as  balm  to  the  man's  soul;  and  some  small  compen- 
sation for  the  harassing  period  he  had  endured  "since  the  poor 
Missis  had  gone  under." 

In  this  fashion  then,  the  inquest  had  ended  and  Saunderson 
still  was  free.  He  alone  comprehended  the  importance  of  the 
fact;  and  as  he  strode  down  the  lonely  road  from  Benfleet  to 
Thames  Haven,  the  haunting  dread  of  the  past  few  days  kept 
him  silent  company. 

In  sullen  self-communion  he  recognised  the  steady  drift  of 
circumstance,  all  tending  to  hamper  his  future  movements,  if 
not  his  freedom.  Sooner  or  later  the  incendiarism  and  other 
"accidents"  arising  out  of  the  strike  would  fasten  upon  him  and 
he  would  be  compelled  to  fight  for  his  life.  Again,  if  these 
matters  leaked,  how  easy  it  would  be  to  implicate  him  in  still 
darker  troubles.  At  present  he  revelled  in  a  jury's  sympathy,  a 

333 


334  THE  ISSUE 

coroner's  paternal  blessing;  but  if  matters  fell  into  another 
groove — if?  Rumour  lies  in  ruts  like  the  rain  in  a  furrowed 
roadway,  only  until  some  heavier  wheel  disturbs  the  channel 
and  draws  the  water  in  its  train.  What,  he  asked  himself  with 
outspread  hands,  what  if  that  weightier  wheel  came  down  the 
path  and  left  him  to  drown  in  the  following  torrent  ? 

The  sands  were  running  out.  The  man's  tether  was  tighten- 
ing. It  gripped  about  his  middle,  chafing  him,  causing  him 
trouble  at  the  girth.  He  saw  these  things  and  acknowledged 
his  danger,  but  argued  that  there  must  yet  remain  some  glimpse 
of  luck ;  a  taste,  a  sip,  to  accompany  him  on  that  journey  which 
now  loomed  as  inevitable  in  his  mind. 

He  questioned  how  was  it  to  end  ?  By  drowning,  by  strand- 
ing, collision — how?  The  Flying  Scud's  crowd  had  gone  all 
possible  ways.  The  Bluebell's  crew  had  followed:  first  the 
man,  Jeffries,  through  absurdly  struggling  to  save  a  cat,  then 
the  cook,  knocked  overboard  by  a  gibing  boom,  and  now 
Snuffles — this  last  again  through  an  oversight,  a  monstrous  and 
inexplicable  reversion  of  irony — by  his  own  act.-  And  there 
remained  Micky  Doolan,  the  boy,  and  Saunderson  himself. 
Micky  Doolan,  too,  who  curiously  had  already  survived  one 
disaster.  It  was  strange.  He  could  not  fathom  it.  He 
pushed  the  matter  from  him  and  moved  resolutely  towards  the 
Haven. 

The  night  was  shutting  down  under  a  heavy  pall  of  cloud 
when  he  reached  the  end  of  his  walk.  A  quarter  of  a  mile  dis- 
tant the  Red  Gauntlet  awaited  him.  Her  tall  spars  and  soot- 
black  sails  stood  out  against  the  farther  horizon  as  though 
carved  in  ebony;  the  delicate  rigging  black,  taut,  like  gossamer 
threads  on  a  silver  shield.  He  could  see  the  mate  waving  an 
answer  to  his  summons,  and  as  he  paused  there  with  fear  grip- 
ping at  his  heart,  his  thoughts  took  shape.  He  raised  his  cap 


THE  FREEDOM  OF  A  SLAVE  535 

and  wiping  the  beads  of  sweat  from  his  brow,  announced  his 
intention  to  start  afresh — free  from  the  conditions  in  which  he 
moved,  free  from  the  shadows  which  haunted  him  now  that  his 
wife  was  dead,  with  tenfold,  force. 

The  noise  made  by  the  boat,  as  she  took  the  stones,  aroused 
him  from  his  brooding.  He  walked  quickly  down  the 
causeway  stepped  on  board,  and  sat  down  to  watch  their 
progress.  The  ebb  was  nearly  spent  when  they  reached  the 
barge;  but  there  was  sufficient  wind  to  enable  them  to  creep 
over  the  tide,  perhaps  to  reach  the  outer  channels,  so  Saunder- 
son  decided  to  proceed,  and  went  below. 

The  windlass  pawls  were  clinking  merrily  when  he  returned 
to  the  deck  and  looked  out  across  the  darkening  waters  towards 
Hope  Point.  He  remained  a  while  examining  the  sky  to  wind- 
ward, then  turning  to  aid  the  mate,  his  eye  chanced  on  a  black- 
sailed  brig,  stealing  slowly  seaward  on  the  farther  shore.  It 
was  the  Tantalus,  the  vessel  once  commanded  by  Sutcliffe. 

In  an  instant  the  whole  trend  of  thought  was  changed.  The 
moment  he  sighted  that  dark  sail-blotch  lying  against  the  Ken- 
tish hills,  he  was  a  different  being;  love,  jealousy,  disappoint- 
ment paramount;  caution  nowhere.  He  recapitulated  his 
troubles.  There  was  the  vessel  whose  skipper  had  defrauded 
him  of  fifty  pounds.  There,  perhaps  on  her  deck,  was  the 
man  who  had  refused  to  coerce  his  daughter,  the  girl  he  loved, 
who  was  his  wife.  His  anger  grew.  There  was  the  man  who 
had  gone  blacklegging;  whom  he  had  tried  to  catch;  who  had 
helped  to  break  the  back  of  the  strike  and  bring  about  its 
leader's  discomfiture. 

Again  his  thoughts  reverted  to  Susie.  His  wife's  words  rang 
in  his  ears.  She  had  prophesied  concerning  his  end.  "You 
will  win  her  and  you  will  die,  but  you  will  win  her  first."  Was 
this  the  opportunity  of  which  she  spoke?  The  old  man  was 


336  THE  ISSUE 

away,  Susie  alone  at  Swinfleet — that  he  knew.  It  meant  but 
a  few  hours  delay.  His  wife  was  dead.  Susie  was  his  wife. 
He  asked  himself,  dare  he  lose  the  time  required  to  fetch  her, 
and  sat  immersed  in  thought  until  the  heavyfooted  mate  dis- 
turbed him. 

"Anchor's  short,  skipper,"  he  remarked  and  stooped  to 
overhaul  the  main  sheet.  Saunderson  rose.  They  proceeded 
to  get  under  way. 

Darkness  closed  in  upon  them  as  they  moved  into  slack 
water.  The  lights  crept  out — white,  green,  red;  a  profusion 
of  signals,  swimming  in  shadow,  curtained  in  mist,  indicative 
of  the  dangers  abounding  at  the  river's  exit. 

The  tall,  dark  sails  of  the  Red  Gauntlet  shivered  in  the  heavy 
air.  She  crept  onward  like  a  wraith,  slowly  but  with  infinite 
certainty,  until  the  Jenkin  was  at  hand  and  the  more  turbulent 
waters  of  the  estuary  washed  her  decks. 

A  gray,  wet  morning  found  them  at  anchor  near  the  eastern 
entrance  to  the  Swatch,  and  Saunderson  rowing  hurriedly  to 
Port  Victoria.  A  short  journey  thence  by  the  early  train,  took 
him  into  the  country  at  the  back  of  Swinfleet  woods ;  and  again, 
by  the  same  means,  at  one  o'clock  he  was  standing  on  the  Med- 
way  terminus  with  a  telegram  to  swell  the  coffers  of  His  Maj- 
esty's postal  service.  Then  out  into  the  thin,  white  rain;  across 
the  misty  pier;  splashing  down  the  sodden  ladder,  dogged, 
persistent,  without  any  thought  but  the  thought  of  Susie's 
beauty;  without  any  desire,  but  the  desire  for  her  presence; 
and  so,  onward  in  his  boat,  sculling  over  the  muddy  tide  and 
hastening  to  regain  his  vessel. 

He  had  forgotten  his  dread,  the  closing  in  of  those  forces 
which  hemmed  him,  the  death  of  his  wife.  He  had  forgotten 
the  scuttling  of  the  barge  and  the  misery  of  those  nights  when 
darkness  reigned,  and  in  the  solitude  of  his  lonely  cabin  he  saw 


THE  FREEDOM  OF  A  SLAVE  337 

himself  beckoned  invisibly  in  the  path  of  the  curse.  He  had 
forgotten  all.  The  girl's  bright  face  and  gentle  form  hovered 
before  him  in  the  gray  seascape — Susie,  his  wife,  his  panacea, 
who  would  cure  him  of  his  anguish.  Her  laughter  rang  in  his 
ears.  Her  smiles  were  smiles  for  him.  He  saw  nothing  else, 
only  Susie — Susie  with  the  sweet  eyes  and  prettily  rounded  form; 
Susie  with  the  golden  hair,  soft,  white  hands,  and  gentle  speech. 
She  was  with  him  during  the  slow  journey  through  the  rain,  as 
she  had  been  with  him  during  the  chill  night  just  past.  He 
pictured  her  in  his  arms  once  more,  and  listening  to  the  honeyed 
dreams,  his  quick  brain  working  out  the  ways  and  means,  he 
laughed  and  swore  and  rowed  with  the  joy  of  joys  ringing  in  his 
ears;  thinking  only  of  the  nearness  of  his  happiness,  of  his 
escape,  and  all  means  of  tracing  him  obliterated. 

He  was  confronted  on  every  hand  by  the  results  of  his  evil 
passions,  yet  passion  held  supreme  control.  He  was  face  to 
face  with  an  ignominious  and  horrible  death  by  hanging,  yet 
the  passions  which  had  run  so  long  unchecked  held  him  in 
bondage.  He  stood  on  the  brink  of  a  precipice  from  which  the 
ground  was  crumbling,  yet  hope  whispered  of  certain  triumph, 
of  the  life  he  would  live  "out  foreign,"  and  kept  his  thoughts 
from  dangerous  topics  until  he  found  himself  on  board  the  Red 
Gauntlet. 

The  vessel  lay  at  her  lonely  anchorage  precisely  as  he  had 
left  her.  The  mate  slept  in  his  bunk  and  a  smoke-black  riding 
lamp  swinging  aloft,  stood  as  a  signal  to  the  preoccupation  of 
her  crew. 


CHAPTER  III 

MRS.  SURRIDGE  GIVES  ADVICE 

FEBRUARY.  A  cold,  gray  dawn  staring  through  the 
cloud-rack  far  in  the  southeast;  staring  at  the  naked 
trees,  the  muddy  roads,  the  dripping  hedgerows;  ting- 
ing the  mist  with  a  touch  of  primrose  which  fell  upon  the  cottage 
at  Swinfleet  with  a  fleeting  gleam;  then,  again  a  falling,  misty 
veil  and  the  steaming  earth  was  gray ;  the  space  where  the  dawn 
had  shown,  shut  in,  a  thing  of  the  past,  gray  with  time — gray 
as  the  smoke  driving  steadily  across  the  woods  from  distant 
Riverton  factories. 

All  this  without;  but  within  the  latticed  window,  a  pretty 
vision  all  flushed  and  rumpled  with  sleep,  staring  through 
dancing  eyes  at  the  grayness — Susie,  awakened  by  the  first  touch 
of  dawn,  searching  the  skies  for  signs  of  the  weather. 

A  soft,  steamy  morning;  very  gray,  very  sad,  very  English; 
a  white-robed  figure,  very  soft,  very  trim,  with  laughing  eyes 
and  glorious  hair,  but  no  sadness — greeting  the  day  which 
would  see  Jack's  return;  thanking  the  sun-god  for  his  gift  of 
light. 

No  darkness  lingered  now  en  her  horizon.  No  hint  of  tears 
in  all  that  cold,  gray  dawn.  Jack  was  coming.  His  letter, 
folded  at  her  bosom,  told  her  with  scandalous  brevity  that  to- 
morrow he  would  be  with  her.  To-morrow  ?  Already  it  was 
to-day.  True  some  hours,  minutes,  must  elapse;  but  what  of 
that?  A  bagatelle,  a  thing  to  live  through  with  laughter  as 
companion.  Hours,  minutes,  trouble,  danger — who  thought 

338 


MRS.  SURRIDGE  GIVES  ADVICE  339 

of  these  at  such  a  time?  Not  Susie.  The  parted  lips,  the 
gleaming  eyes,  the  fleeting  dimples,  all  proclaimed  her  happi- 
ness. Night  was  gone.  The  sun  had  risen.  Her  lover  was 
coming  home. 

And  so  ail  through  the  day,  smiling  joyously  at  her  aunt's 
droll  speeches,  flushing  crimson  at  every  unexpected  sound; 
watching  Tom's  exits  sty-ward,  when  at  meal  times  he  found  the 
English  language  so  unutterably  deficient  of  words,  until  the 
afternoon  began  to  wane,  the  mists  grew  thicker,  and  it  was  time 
to  go  down  to  the  finger  post  at  the  end  of  the  village  to  await 
Jack's  coming. 

A  mutiny  of  all  subservient  things  occured  at  this.  Hat 
pins,  usually  so  pointed,  refused  to  pierce  the  straw.  A  jacket, 
generally  admitted  to  be  useless  unless  furnished  with  two 
arms,  appeared  in  silent  protest  with  one.  Buttons,  intended 
by  confiding  makers  to  be  a  means  of  fastening,  inexorably 
shook  their  heads  and  stayed  unfast.  An  extraordinary  and 
mutinous  state  of  affairs  until  Mrs.  Surridge  came  to  the  rescue 
and  Susie  was  coaxed  and  patted  into  her  fractious  garments. 

"La,  la!  there's  a  dear,"  so  ran  her  aunt's  expostulations, 
"Buttons?  Child,  your  fingers  shake  like  a  passel  of  wag- 
wants.*  Sleeves?  Your  jacket  has  all  the  sleeves  you  want  at 
present.  Hatpins?  La!  when  I  was  a  gell  an' wanted  to  pin 
my  hat,  I  pinned  my  hat  an'  not  my  blessed  crown.  La!  La! 
was  ever  such  a  pretty  bundle  of  confusion?  Why,  Susie,  I 
do  declare  you  make  me  spry  again.  For  two  pins  I'd  come 
myself;  but  there's  your  uncle,  child,  an'  we  must  look  after 
our  men,  if  we  don't  want  someone  else  to  do  it  for  us — and 
then — well,  there,  I'm  sure  you  understand." 

She  caught  the  girl  round  the  waist  and  kissed  her  gleaming 
eyes  as  Susie  leaned  there  upon  her  motherly  breast. 


340  THE  ISSUE 

"I  do,  I  do,"  she  whispered.     "Auntie,  you're  a  gem." 

Mrs.  Surridge  shook  her  head  and  continued  her  aid  un- 
moved. "Maybe,"  she  remarked  after  due  reflection,  "but 
it's  a  gem  as  needs  a  deal  of  polishing.  A  gem  that  has  got 
roughed  with  work  as  would  have  lined  a  duchess.  The 
quality  have  means  of  keeping  young — powder,  cause-meticks, 
an'  such  like;  but  I  have  only  had  brown  Windsor.  Heigho! 
What  we  all  come  to!  Pretty,  ami?  Now  you  get  along  an' 
don't  try  to  addle  an  old  woman's  head  with  seltimental 
speeches.  I'm  done,  Susie;  you're  beginning.  I'm  wore 
out,  stale  as  a  mildewed  trotter;  you're  fresh  as  paint  an'  twice 
as  wholesome.  There?  Get  away  before  I  want  to  keep  you 
by  me  for  a  model.  Get  away — there's  a  lamb." 

The  evening  had  shut  in  and  it  was  quite  dark  by  the  time 
Susie  reached  the  lamp  set  midway  between  the  crossroads 
and  paused  to  await  her  lover. 

The  trees  standing  sentry  beside  the  pathway  shook  their 
lean  fingers  as  the  soughing  wind  went  past;  a  scattered  fall 
of  rain  rushed  up  the  valley  and  the  dead  leaves  swept  eddying 
across  the  road;  then  silence,  the  silence  which  inevitably 
follows  in  the  track  of  a  storm — and  in  the  silence,  footsteps 
thumping  the  sodden  way. 

A  man  came  out  of  the  darkness.  The  lamp  at  the  apex  of 
the  roads  threw  a  soft  glare  upon  him.  He  walked  with  a 
stride;  he  was  tall  and  wore  what  appeared  to  be  a  slouched 
hat.  He  came  directly  toward  the  lamp.  It  could  be  no  one 
else — it  must  be  Jack. 

A  pretty  vision  with  flushed  cheeks  and  dancing  eyes  stood 
there  in  the  shadows,  beckoning  him  on.  A  trim,  girlish 
figure  all  curves  and  dimples  now  moving  with  parted  lips  and 
heaving  breast  to  meet  him.  A  word  stole  into  the  silence — 
a  man's  name,  breathed  softly  as  a  kiss: 


MRS.  SURRIDGE  GIVES  ADVICE  341 

"Jack?" 

And  the  answer  came  out  to  meet  her:  "Susie!"  and  again, 
"My  Susie!" 

The  two  met  midway  on  the  road's  smooth  surface  and  in  a 
moment  they  were  as  one;  strained  breast  to  breast,  lip  to  lip 
— not  two  but  one,  and  the  agony  of  the  past  forgotten. 

A  shiver  ran  through  the  trees  towering  there  far  into  the 
night.  But  the  man  did  not  hear  it,  he  had  drawn  back  and 
was  looking  into  the  girl's  pale  face.  "How  could  I  leave  you, 
lass?"  he  questioned. 

"Ohi   Jack,  how  did  I  let  you  go?" 

Quick,  half-sobbing  utterances  these,  then  again  a  pause, 
heartwrung,  timorous,  as  though  the  voices  of  the  night,  the 
plaint  of  a  sunless  land  and  the  swift  rustle  of  the  unburied 
leaves  were  the  sounds  which  entranced  them  solely.  A  pause 
the  man  filled  by  putting  back  the  tumbled  hair,  soothing  it 
with  an  unsoft  hand,  watching  the  leaping  colour  with  eyes 
that  roved  in  shame;  mindful  only  of  that  unwise  flight  of  his 
which  had  fallen  so  heavily  on  the  girl.  "Susie!"  he  looked 
wistfully  into  her  eyes,"  How  can  I  put  it  ?  How  can  I  explain  ?  " 

"Don't,  darling — only  kiss  me." 

rf' I  was  a  fool,  Susie.     I  was  a  fool!"  he  reiterated. 

"Then  there  were  two  of  us,"  she  decided.  "Kiss  me  and 
forget." 

He  drew  her  to  him,  crying  out  passionately:  "God  love 
you!  I  can  never  forget — I  can  never  forget." 

"Now  you  are  looking  grave,"  she  pleaded  with  wistful,  up- 
turned face. 

"Can  you  forgive  me,  Susie?"  he  urged,  again  holding  back 
and  watching  her  clear,  dark  eyes. 

"Have  I  ever  blamed  you,  my  husband?" 

He  caught  her  in  his  arms,  kissing  her  vehemently.     "No, 


342  THE  ISSUE 

no,"  he  cried,  "you  are  too  good  to  throw  my  foolishness  in  my 
teeth;  but  the  sting  isn't  easily  wiped  out  for  all  that.  A  man 
must  prove  himself.  Words  are  like  the  froth  on  a  glass  of 
beer,  all  bubbles,  Susie,  all  bubbles  to  be  blown  away  by  the 
first  puff.  A  man  must  act." 

She  reached  up  and  put  her  arms  about  his  neck.  "My 
dear,"  she  urged,  "are  you  the  only  one  who  slipped?  Haven't 
I  made  mistakes?  You  remember  my  letter,  dear.  I  told 
you  what  had  happened.  I  told  you  all:  can  you  forgive  me 
and  still  call  me  your  wife?" 

He  cried  out  with  a  gust  of  passion:  "I  came  back  to  call 
you  wife.  Forgive!  God  love  you,  what  have  I  to  forgive? 
Nothing.  Less  than  nothing.  Your  mistake  was  the  result 
of  mine,  your  trouble  the  result  of  my  pig-headedness.  Susie, 
I  meant  to  get  across  the  water,  to  get  somewhere  where  we 
could  be  married — and  to  call  you  over  at  once.  But  my  plans 
fell  awry.  I  couldn't  send  for  you." 

"Dear,  I  know  it — now  I  know  it.    At  first " 

He  broke  in  with  a  quick  note:  "Aye;  but  it  all  came  from 
my  false  step.  I  had  no  right  to  run — and  yet,  you  remember, 
I  had  no  other  chance  of  undoing  the  wrong  I  had  done.  Fear 
of  death  stared  me  in  the  face.  I  though  they  would  hinder 
our  marriage.  Susie,  I  am  telling  you  now  what  I  have  learned 
with  time.  It  seems  almost  like  an  excuse ;  but  you  know  we 
were  in  front  of  two  puzzles  and  I  thought  my  only  chance  of 
winning  the  second  was  by  getting  time. 

"It  sounded  all  right;  but  it  fell  all  wrong.  I  knew  it 
directly  I  saw  my  boat  was  gone;  I  knew  it  more  certainly 
when  we  were  hustling  through  the  fog  and  that  silent  death 
came  smashing  into  us;  I  knew  it  better  when  they  picked  me 
up  and  carried  me  away  to  Montevideo.  Trust  me,  I  saw  it 
all  then.  I  saw  what  a  fool  I  had  been.  It  was  just  ghastly. 


MRS.  SURRIDGE  GIVES  ADVICE  343 

Every  day  we  were  going  farther  away,  every  day  the  possi- 
bility of  our  marriage  was  put  back  two.  My  dear,  I  got  to 
curse  the  sunrise.  The  sea  maddened  me. 

"Tssss!  Never  a  sail,  lass,  all  the  way  out.  Never  a 
chance  of  sending  a  line — days,  weeks,  months  of  solitude,  till 
we  reached  the  Plata  and  I  was  free  to  join  a  boat  for  home. 
It  was  on  that  passage  I  learned  to  see  straight.  Anyone 
would.  Even  a  fool.  And  so  I  came  back  to  Abbeyville.  I 
came  back  to  tie  the  knot  we'd  left  untied,  Susie — and  then 
— "His  voice  took  a  sterner  note.  He  ceased  and,  drawing 
the  girl  close  in  his  arms,  questioned:  "You  can  bear  it? 
You  are  brave  now,  sweet?" 

"I  can  bear  anything,  Jack.     We  are  together." 

A  tremulous  answer,  and  almost  tearful  voice;  then  her 
head  nestled  on  his  shoulder  and  again  he  smoothed  the  tumbled 
hair  with  that  unsoft  hand  she  seemed  to  find  so  gentle. 

"We've  got  to  face  it,"  he  announced  at  length.  "Duns- 
combe  wasn't  killed  by  me — I  need  not  tell  you  that — but 
the  warrant  is  still  out  against  me.  I  must  surrender  and 
stand  my  trial  if  need  be,  and  Saunderson  will  be 
charged." 

She  looked  up  swiftly  at  this :     ' '  Then  you  believe  that  too  ?  " 

"Tony  Crow's  evidence,  so  the  lawyer  says,  would  hang  a 
dozen  Saundersons." 

The  girl's  eyes  filled,  she  buried  her  face,  crying  out:  " Oh! 
it  is  awful — awful!  Jack,  how  could  I — 

And  again  he  soothed  her.  "Forget,  forget!"  he  begged. 
"There  is  nothing  else  to  do,  only  to  forget  and  settle  down 
to  fight." 

"See  here,"  he  continued,  speaking  with  young  assurance, 
"I  have  arranged  everything.  This  morning  before  it  was 
light  I  came  into  Abbeyville  and  got  into  the  place  Tony  had 


344  THE  ISSUE 

fixed  up  for  me.  I  am  going  to  stay  there  so  as  to  be  near  you, 
Susie,  while  we  are  working  up  the  evidence. 

"Tony  Crow  has  been  at  it  ever  since  I  ran,  but  he  tells  me 
that  it  was  only  the  other  day  that  he  came  upon  what  he 
wanted.  It  appears  that  the  day  before  Dunscombe's  murder, 
he  had  asked  Saunderson  to  take  a  small  box  to  one  of  the 
Riverton  shops  for  repairs.  Saunderson  forgot  to  leave  it.  It 
was  in  his  pocket  that  night  on  the  sea-wall,  and  there  he  lost  it. 

"That  with  the  evidence  of  the  girl,  Dolly  Crassley,  will  be 
sufficient  to  clear  me.  Mr.  Sherren  is  certain  of  the  result  and 
so  am  I.  There  can  be  no  doubt  about  it,  for  you  see  Saunder- 
son had  been  discharged  the  night  Dunscombe  met  me.  How 
do  we  know?  Bless  you,  the  servant  girl  at  Dunscombe'r 
house  heard  the  man  threaten  to  finish  his  master.  Oh!  it 
is  all  certain  enough.  We  need  not  fear.  You  need  not  fear, 
Susie.  Why,  Saunderson  is  on  his  way  to  Maiden  now.  But 
he  may  never  reach  Maiden,  for  the  police  are  after  him  and  if 
he  gets  there  they  will  take  him  on  his  arrival.  Then  I  shall 
surrender  and  Saunderson  will  be  charged." 

He  stood  there  so  confident  in  his  power  to  accomplish  these 
matters  that  Susie  bowed  to  the  influence  and  smiled  back  at  the 
eyes  watching  so  passionately  her  own.  At  that  moment  it 
seemed  that  the  fight  was  accomplished,  that  Jack  was  free, 
and  their  bridal  day  already  on  the  horizon.  Youth  is  so  lusty, 
so  full  of  hope — and  these  two  were  young  and  in  love.  And 
as  if  in  confirmation  of  the  notion  which  ran  through  Susie's 
mind,  there  came  the  man's  deep  voice  as  he  stood  there  read- 
ing her  eyes.  "And  then,  Susie,"  he  questioned.  "And 
then?" 

She  met  his  look,  a  crimsoning  flush  adding  to  the  beauty 
which  was  undeniably  hers:  "I  am  ready,  darling,  when  you 
are  ready  to  take  me." 


MRS.  SURRIDGE  GIVES  ADVICE  345 

Far  in  the  darkness  overhead  the  trees  sighed;  then  a  swift 
gust  swept  down  the  valley  showering  upon  them  their  wealth 
of  leaves.  Susie  shivered  and  clung  to  her  lover's  arm  as  they 
moved  for  shelter.  "Come  in,  come  in,"  she  begged. 
"Again  there  is  rain  and  I  am  afraid." 

"Afraid — now?  Nonsense,  lass.  We  are  safe  and  you  are 
mine." 

They  crossed  quickly  out  of  the  road  and  entered  the  garden. 
And  as  they  came  up  the  path  the  cottage  door  opened  and  Mrs. 
Surridge  appeared,  standing  in  the  glare  of  the  lamp  with  Tom, 
on  tiptoe,  peeping  over  her  shoulder. 

"Where  they  hev  got  to  I  can't  think  no  more  than  Adam." 
Mrs.  Surridge  expostulated,  "Susie'll  catch  her  death." 

"No  she  won't,"  her  husband  decided  truculently.  "I 
don't  mind  you  catchin'  your  death  when  I  was  walkin'  out 
wi'  you.  Leave  'em  alone." 

At  this  the  truant  couple  strolled  into  sight  and  halted  at 
the  door. 

"La! "  cried  Mrs.  Surridge  with  hands  uplifted  and  astonish- 
ment written  visibly  in  her  expressive  face,  "La!  if  it  isn't  Mr. 
Elliott." 

"Z1  if  you  didn't  know  that  all  along!"  said  Tom  with  a 
chuckle.  "Come  in,  Jack;  come  in  an'  welkim." 

Mrs.  Surridge  moved  ponderously  to  the  front  holding  out 
one  hand.  And  with  the  other  pressed  over  a  noticeable 
fluctuation  in  the  region  of  her  bodice  she  beamed  a  massive 
and  unqualified  approval.  "Welcome's  the  word,"  she  an- 
nounced with  an  air,  "from  every  one  here  plesent.  Good 
luck  and  welcome:  that's  my  wishes  and  many  of  'em.  Get 
in,  Tom,  doey  get  in!" 


CHAPTER  IV 

SAUNDERSON'S  LUCK  CHANGES 

SEVERAL  days  had  passed  and  the  time  coincided  with 
^  that  pause  made  by  Saunderson  in  the  Swatch.  A 
cold,  bleak  day;  but  within  the  cottage  at  Swinfleet 
a  voice  singing  merrily  as  Susie  went  about  her  morning  tasks. 
Breakfast  was  over,  and  presently,  at  dusk  to  be  precise,  Jack 
would  again  be  with  her.  Therefore  she  sang  until  from  the 
window  she  espied  a  boy  dressed  in  the  nondescript  uniform 
of  the  country  telegraph  service  coming  down  the  garden 
path. 

He  knocked  on  the  door  and  stood  whistling.  The  singing 
ceased  as  the  girl  opened  to  him.  The  boy  stopped  whistling 
and  said  in  an  inquiring  banter:  "Susie  Sutcliffe?"  and 
followed  it  up  with  a  request  for  a  match.  He  produced  a 
cigarette  and  a  telegram  simultaneously  and  motioned  with 
one  hand  to  indicate  his  desire. 

Susie  closed  the  door  without  heeding  him.  She  held  an 
envelope  between  finger  and  thumb,  staring  at  it  with  the  vague 
suspicion  of  persons  unaccustomed  to  the  receipt  of  telegraphic 
dispatches.  A  thought  came  to  fluster  her.  Was  it  from 
Jack?  Was  it  possible  that  Jack  would  be  unable  to  come? 
She  tore  the  cover  open  with  a  sudden  earnestness  and  saw  that 
it  was  not  from  Jack;  that  it  came  from  Port  Victoria — a  place 
of  which  she  had  no  knowledge.  She  saw,  too,  that  it  was 
signed  by  Micky  Doolan,  the  mate  of  the  Tantalus.  All  this 
she  gathered  in  the  first  flush  of  fear  and  almost  before  her  brain 

346 


SAUNDERSON'S  LUCK  CHANGES 


347 


had  grasped  the  meaning  of  the  written  words.     She  turned  to 
read  again.     The  message  ran  thus: 

"Accident  down  river.  Father  hurt  bad.  Come  at  once 
to  Port  Victoria.  Boat  waiting  to  take  you  off  to  Tantalus. 
Urgent.  "MICKT  DOOLAN,  Mate." 

Susie  stood  a  moment  questioning  what  she  must  do.  The 
telegram  announced  definitely  that  her  father  was  ill — per- 
haps dying.  Her  uncle  on  whom  she  could  rely  was  away  on  a 
distant  portion  of  the  farm ;  her  aunt  gone  on  an  errand  to  the 
village ;  Jack  was  at  Riverton  with  the  lawyers.  Thus  the  girl 
was  alone  in  the  house  with  a  vision  of  her  father's  death  to 
fluster  her. 

She  glanced  swiftly  at  the  clock  and  saw  that  it  would  be 
possible  to  catch  the  train.  The  knowledge  steadied  her.  She 
decided  that  she  must  go.  There  was  no  alternative.  The 
telegram  appealed  with  the  force  of  a  command. 

She  rose  at  once  and  hastened  to  her  room  whence  shortly 
she  emerged  dressed  for  the  journey.  With  a  little  shiver  of 
apprehension  she  took  the  telegram  and  scribbled  a  short  note 
at  the  foot  of  it;  then  having  fastened  the  cottage  door  and 
deposited  the  key  in  its  usual  hiding  place  when  all  were  out  on 
different  errands,  she  starred  for  the  station. 

The  sun  had  set  behind  a  gloomy  bank  of  clouds  when  at 
length  Susie  alighted  on  the  dreary  platform  which  terminates 
the  line  crossing  the  Hundred  of  Hoo.  The  trains  had  met 
badly,  a  condition  of  affairs  she  might  have  expected,  but  she 
felt  only  heart-sick  at  the  additional  loss  of  time.  Her  father, 
she  remembered,  might  be  dying.  Nothing  else  appealed. 

A  light  breeze  from  the  southeast  chased  a  low  and  smoke- 
like  scud  across  the  darkening  heavens.  The  wind  moaned  in 


348  THE  ISSUE 

fitful  gusts,  shaking  the  high  railway  pier  which  abuts  on  the 
Medway's  bank  and  whistled  shrilly  amidst  the  slime  and  sea- 
weed clinging  to  the  gaunt  legs  which  carried  it.  Susie  moved 
out  into  the  gloom  searching  for  the  promised  boat.  At  the 
verge  of  the  shed  a  man  stood  viewing  the  passengers  crossing 
to  the  Sheerness  ferry.  When  all  had  passed  he  approached 
the  girl. 

"Lookin'  fer  the  Tantalus  boat?"  he  questioned  gruffly. 
Susie  came  towards  him  at  once:   "Yes;  are  you  sent  to  fetch 
me  ?     Oh!  how  is  my  father — please,  please  tell  me." 

"Father  ain't  no  better  ner  'ee  ain't  no  wuss,  so  fur  as  I  can 
mike  aat,"  the  man  replied.  "  M'ybe  we'd  best  get  on  board. 
I'm  abaat  sick  o'  diddlin'  'ere.  It's  cruel  cold,  an'  that's  the 
truth." 

"Tell  me,"  she  pleaded,  undeterred,  "that — that  he  isn't 
dead." 

The  man  eyed  her  with  stolid  unconcern:  "Dead?"  he 
ejaculated,  "Naa,  'ee  ain't  dead;  but  'ee's  powerful  sick." 

Susie  made  no  further  remark  but  hastened  to  the  end  of  the 
pier.  Here  a  grim  flight  of  steps  yawned  over  the  blackness 
and  she  halted  uncertain. 

The  man  looked  at  her.  'You  wite 'ere,"  he  said,  " 'old  on 
to  the  rilin'  an'  I'll  fetch  me  glim  to  show  the  road." 

He  descended  the  ladder  and  climbed  into  the  boat.  Far 
away  and  very  dim  he  appeared  to  the  watching  girl.  The 
lamp  threw  a  faint  blurr  and  the  man  moved  about  a  boat 
which  rocked,  muzzling  the  ladder's  side.  The  man  glanced 
up.  At  the  top  of  the  steps  a  shadow  flitted.  The  whole 
business  was  a  nuisance,  a  nuisance  which,  now  that  he  faced 
it,  seemed  a  trifle  flustering.  He  had  been  sent  to  fetch  this 
girl  and  had  been  ordered  to  say  that  her  father  was  very  sick — 
dying,  if  need  be,  in  order  to  get  her  to  accompany  him. 


SAUNDERSON'S  LUCK  CHANGES  349 

Hitherto  he  had  been  inclined  to  swear  at  what  seemed  to  be  a 
wild  goose  chase  for  some  other  person's  benefit.  But  now  that 
he  had  seen  the  girl  he  discovered  that  she  awed  him.  She 
was  young,  stupidly  young  for  such  a  business.  She  required 
protection,  and  yet,  there  stood  the  fact  that  she  required  no 
pressing.  He  could  not  make  her  out.  She  seemed  more  of  a 
"lidy"  than  that  sort  usually  were.  She  was  dressed  in  black 
and  was  undoubtedly  much  frightened.  Well,  if  the  skipper 
had  a  fancy  for  ladies  it  was  all  right.  He  had  to  fetch  her. 
He  had  to  interfere  in  nothing.  Right,  he  wouldn't  interfere; 
but  he  made  up  his  mind,  as  he  mounted  like  a  dim  octopus 
from  the  depths,  that  he  would  call  her  Miss.  So — there  was 
no  longer  any  question  in  his  mind.  She  must  be  Miss. 

He  helped  her  down  the  slimy  steps  without  comment,  and 
did  not  speak  again,  until  the  pier  had  long  vanished  and  they 
were  afloat  on  the  shimmering  waters — waters  black  and  inky 
as  a  bath  of  oil;  oil  that  reflected  greasy  strokes  of  light  and 
hissed  alongside  with  the  noise  of  moving  straw.  Only  once 
during  their  tedious  journey  did  Susie  break  the  silence;  she 
begged  to  know  how  far  they  had  still  to  go.  The  mate  rested 
on  his  oars.  He  spoke  more  kindly. 

"Not  fur,  Missy.  It's  bin  a  tidy  pull;  but  we's  more  ner 
hawlf  w'y  there." 

Susie  shivered  and  drew  her  cloak  more  closely  about  her. 
The  man  looked  up  with  sudden  anxiety. 

"Are  ye  cold?"  he  questioned;  "'ere;  tike  my  oilskin;  'tain't 
werry  soft,  an'  there's  no  frills  abaat  it  as  I  know  of,  but  it's 
a  good  un  fer  keepin'  aat  the  cold.  It's  turned  a'mighty  thick — 
an'  the  wind's  dyin'." 

He  handed  the  coat  and  helped  to  wrap  it  about 
her  shoulders;  then  sitting  back  to  his  oars  continued  mys- 
teriously: 


350  THE  ISSUE 

"If  this  gime  ain't  to  yer  fancy,  Missy;  w'y  you  look  t'Bill 
Marley  an'  'ee'll  be  there." 

Susie  faced  him  abruptly.  "What  do  you  mean?"  she 
cried. 

"If  you  dawn't  know,  I'm  suttin'  sure  I  dawn't,  Missy." 

"But  indeed  I  don't  understand  you." 

"Lumme!"  he  returned,  then  began  to  sing  softly: 


"  If  I  'ad  a  mide  as  was  so  fair, 

O!     U-ri-o; 

D'ye  think  I'd  leave  'er  to  tear  'er  'air, 
Wen  we're  bound  to  the  Ri-o  Grande.' " 


"Oh!  don't,  don't,"  she  cried;  "it  isn't  kind  when  I'm  in 
such  trouble."  Her  voice  rang  with  the  echo  of  tears,  and  she 
leaned  forward  a  mere  beggar  for  his  mercy. 

The  man  shut  his  jaws  with  a  snap,  gave  an  extra  pull  at  the 
oars  and  turning  to  her  whispered:  "Lumme,  I  oughter  known 
better,  sling  it,  and  mind  wot  I  sez  just  now."  He  backed 
hard  on  his  starboard  scull  and  turned  the  boat's  head  towards 
a  vessel  which  seemed  to  have  sprung  out  of  the  night  and 
suddenly  taken  its  place  beside  them.  He  stood  up,  clutching 
at  the  shrouds.  "  Jump  aat,"  he  cried;  "ketch  holt  o'  my  arm 
an'  go  steady." 

Susie  accepted  his  proffered  help  and  glanced  around. 

"But  this  is  not  the  Tantalus,"  she  cried;  "she  isn't  big 
enough — this  is  a  barge." 

"That's  all  right,  don't  you  worrit,  Missy.  The  Tantalus 
lies  furder  dahn;  we  couldn't  fetch  her  in  the  boat — strite! 
No  lawks!" 

The  girl's  heart  stood  still.  Her  voice  thrilled  with  fear  as 
she  cried  out:  "Are  you  sure  of  what  you  say?  Are  you? 
Where  is  my  father?  Tell  me— tell  me." 


SAUNDERSON'S  LUCK  CHANGES  351 

"If  this  ain't  a  go,  lumme!"  said  the  man.  "Jump  aboord 
an'  we'll  run  'e  dahn  to  father  in  a  brice  of  shikes." 

Susie  had  no  option  in  the  matter,  she  was  compelled  to 
obey.  The  man  spoke  roughly,  but  that,  she  knew  from  her 
voyages  with  her  father,  was  the  language  of  the  bargee.  She 
guessed,  too,  from  what  he  had  said,  that  perhaps  he  was  kinder 
than  appeared;  so  putting  her  hand  in  his  she  looked  him  in 
the  face  and  said: 

"I  believe  what  you  say.  I  will  trust  you.  Where  shall  I 
go?" 

He  led  her  aft  and  taking  her  to  the  scuttle,  pointed  down  the 
stairs,  "Right,  Missy,"  he  returned,  "you  trust  me.  There's 
no  one  dahn  below — if  I  was  you  I'd  go  dahn — then  we'll  up 
mud'ook  an'  aw'y," 

"How  far  have  we  to  go?" 

"None  so  fur.     You  go  into  the  kebbin'  an'  rest  warm." 

Susie  did  as  she  was  ordered,  and  immediately  the  scuttle 
was  drawn  and  fastened. 


CHAPTER  V 

MRS.  SURRIDGE  MOVES 

EARLY  in  the  afternoon  of  the  same  day  Elliott  and  Tony 
Crow  were  seated  in  Mr.  Sherren's  sanctum.  The 
two  men  had  come  in  from  Abbeyville  to  compare 
notes  with  Dolly  Crossley  and  Micky  Doolan  and  to  prepare 
their  evidence  for  the  lawyer.  They  had  been  so  engaged  since 
twelve  o'clock  and  Mr.  Sherren  sitting  there  giving  directions 
to  a  junior  rubbed  his  hands  pleasantly  over  the  web  he  was 
weaving  around  Saunderson.  In  the  midst  of  it  an  altercation 
arose  in  the  outer  office;  and  as  it  appeared  to  increase  the 
lawyer  paused  and  struck  a  gong.  A  clerk  opened  the  door 
and  looked  in. 

"What  is  all  that  racket  about,  Johnson?  Kindly  see  that 
silence  is  kept,"  said  the  master. 

The  clerk  looked  aggrieved,  "I'm  afraid,  sir,"  he  replied, 
"we  can  scarcely  prevent  it.  There  is  a  person  outside  who 
appears  to  be  under  some  misapprehension.  We  can' t  get  rid 
of  her." 

"Who  is  she?" 

"A  country  person,  sir;    tall  and  fat  and " 

"That's  a  lie,  young  man — tall  and  fat  indeed!"  cried  an 
excited  voice  from  the  doorway.  "Trim  and  tidy  an'  respect- 
able— that's  the  prescription  an'  don't  you  forget  it." 

Tony  Crow  winked  at  his  friend.  "Socks!"  he  cried, 
"yon'sMrs.  Surritch." 

"Mrs.  Who?"    the  lawyer  questioned. 

352 


MRS.  SURRIDGE  MOVES  353 

"Mrs.  Surritch,  sir — Tammas'  old  woman;  Susie's  uncle." 

Mr.  Sherren  glanced  at  the  blacksmith  and  gathering  more 
from  his  look  than  from  the  lucidity  of  his  reply,  turned  to  the 
clerk  and  desired  him  to  show  the  lady  in. 

Mrs.  Surridge  waited  no  second  invitation.  In  a  moment 
she  had  bustled  in,  glared  at  the  clerk,  and  stood  to  confront 
the  "lawyer-man." 

"Beggin'  your  pardon,  sir,  for  the  hintaluption,"  she  gasped 
as  she  searched  among  her  skirts  and  rolled  the  aspirate  to  the 
front;  "I  don't  hold  with  hintalupting  anybody;  but  there  is 
times  when  it's  to  be  excuged,  an'  this,  hin  my  opinion,  is  one 
of  them.  Jack,  my  dear,  this  telegraft  came  while  me  an'  Tom 
are  hout,  and  Susie's  to  home  alone.  An'  what's  the  result? 
Why,  Susie's  gone  to  see  after  him,  as  is  nateral." 

She  crossed  over  and  handed  the  telegram  as  she  spoke; 
then,  having  assured  herself  that  her  petticoats  were  in  order, 
sank  into  a  chair  and  proceeded  to  fan  her  heated  face. 

"Gone  to  look  after  him?"  Elliott  repeated  fingering  the 
paper  in  some  perplexity. 

"Hit's  what  you  might  have  expected  of  her,  seein'  it's 
Susie — an'  beggin'  your  pardon  for  the  trouble  I'm  giving," 
she  continued  without  pause,  "an'  there  would  a  bin  no  excuse 
for  it,  onlie,  she  says,  'Tell  Jack',  she  says,  'an'  he  will  folia.' 
So  here  I  ham — drove  in  in  farmer  Stokeses'  milk  cart  an' 
jilted  to  a  blessed  jelly  with  springs  that  are  more  like — sakes 
alive!  What's  wrong  with  you,  Jack?" 

This  exclamation  was  caused  by  Elliott's  sudden  shout  of 
dismay  as  he  read  the  message.  "  Good  God! "  he  cried  again, 
"this  is  Saunderson's  work — Saunderson,  do  you  under- 
stand?" 

"  Saunderson ! "  Mrs.  Surridge  reiterated  rising  and  glanc- 
ing hastily  about  her. 


354  THE  ISSUE 

"Saunderson  sent  that  wire,"  Elliott  asserted  moving  to- 
ward the  lawyer,  who  had  risen  also. 

"Nonsense,  Jack,  you're  wrong — all  wrong,"  Mrs.  Surridge 
objected.  "It's  poor  George  as  is  hurt.  It's  writ  plain  as 
sucking  pigs,  an'  Susie's  gone  to  nuss  him." 

Elliott  stood  like  one  dazed.  The  blacksmith  approached 
and  touched  him  on  the  back,  "Haund  ower  t'  telegraft  t'  Mr. 
Sheeron,  Jock;  haund  it  ower — there's  a  man." 

The  lawyer  adjusted  his  pince-nez  and  taking  the  message 
read  as  follows: 

"SuSIE  SUTCLIFFE, 

c/o  Surridge,  Ivy  Farm,  Swinfleet, 

"Accident  down  river.  Father  hurt  bad.  Come  at  once 
to  Port  Victoria.  Boat  waiting  to  take  you  off  to  Tantalus. 
Urgent.  MICKY  DOOLAN,  Mate." 

"Micky  Doolan?"  Mr.  Sherran  accentuated  glancing 
over  his  glasses.  "Why  surely  that  is  the  man  we  have  been 
talking  to?" 

Elliott  broke  out  with  a  gust  of  passion  at  this;  "It's  a  lie, 
a  lie!"  he  cried.  "Not  a  word  is  true.  Saunderson  sent 
that  wire." 

"Steady,  my  lad,"  said  the  lawyer. 

But  Elliott  was  moving  up  and  down  the  office  in  ungovern- 
able anger.  "Again  I  have  made  a  hash  of  it!"  he  cried  out. 
"Again  he  has  got  to  windward  and  left  me.  Micky  Doolan 
is  not  mate  of  the  Tantalus.  He  left  last  voyage  and  Saunder- 
son sent  that  message  to  get  the  girl." 

He  gathered  up  his  cap  and  reached  for  the  telegram,  but 
the  lawyer  intervened.  "One  moment,"  he  said.  "We  will 
send  for  Doolan.  He  is  going  down  river  to  meet  a  ship,  you 
say.  Very  well  stop  him."  He  paused  and  looked  at  the 
blacksmith.  "Perhaps,"  he  resumed,  "you  will  go  down  to 
the  pier  and  stop  him?" 


MRS.  SURRIDGE  MOVES  355 

Tony  Crow  rose  at  once.  "Ah  will,"  he  replied.  "Mean- 
while ah  hope  your  honour  will  be  able  t'  fix  oop  a  way  t'  collar 
the  lot." 

As  he  left  the  office  the  lawyer  turned  to  Mrs.  Surridge. 
"When  did  the  girl  start?"  he  questioned. 

Elliott,  who  had  been  silently  examining  the  telegram  for 
some  time, found  voice  at  this.  "She  caught  the  midday  train, 
sir:  that's  certain  from  what  she  has  written  on  the  form.  'I  am 
going,'  she  says,  'by  the  next  train  to  see  him.  I  will  bring  him 
home  if  I  can.  Tell  Jack  and  if  I  can't  return  ask  him  to 
follow  me.'  And,  sir,  from  the  telegram  I  see  that  it  was  re- 
ceived at  11:30.  She  could  do  it  easily.  Excuse  me,  I'm 
off." 

"Stay!"  cried  the  lawyer  sharply,  "don't  court  the  lock-up. 
I  warned  you  this  morning  that  the  warrant  for  your  arrest  is 
still  in  existence.  Take  this  card,  and  if  anyone  stops  you 
show  it — you  understand?" 

"You  are  very  good,  sir,  and  I  thank  you,"  he  replied. 

"Never  mind  that  but  tell  me  what  are  your  plans." 

"As  for  that,  sir,  I'm  going  to  overhaul  the  Red  Gauntlet. 
It's  easy  as  child's-play  now  we  know  where  Saunderson  is. 
You  remember  Micky  Doolan  saw  him  leaving  Thames  Haven 
last  night — very  well;  the  tide  wouldn't  let  him  get  farther  than 
the  Medway  and  as  the  telegram  is  stamped  Port  Victoria,  he's 
lying  in  the  Swatch.  If  Susie  left  by  the  train  we  expect,  she 
would  reach  Port  Victoria  about  three  o'clock,  that's  a  certainty; 
then  there's  the  row  down  to  the  Swatch  where  the  Gauntlet's 
lying — that  would  take  another  hour.  Sir,  she's  scarcely 
there  yet.  She  can't  reach  much  before  we  can  overhaul  them 
with  the  Stormy  Petrel.  I'll  have  them  if  I  die  for  it.  I'll 
find  them  if  it's  the  last  day's  work  I  do  on  God's  earth.  Sir, 
I'm  off." 


356  THE  ISSUE 

The  lawyer  crossed  over  and  took  Elliott  by  the  hand. 

"Good,"  he  decided.  "And  I  think  possibly  I,  too,  may 
have  helped  in  this  matter.  The  fact  is  I  gave  instructions  to 
the  river  police  to  keep  in  touch  with  the  Red  Gauntlet.  They 
are  not  far  away.  Look  out  for  them  as  you  go  down.  And 
now,  good  luck.  Let  me  hear  as  soon  as  you  return.  Mean- 
while I  will  see  the  police  again  and  arrange  with  them  in  the 
matter  of  your  warrant.  Outside  you  will  find  a  cab.  Take 
it  and  get  along  as  fast  as  you  can." 

They  left  the  office  at  once  and  drove  to  the  pier.  Here  they 
found  Tony  Crow  waiting  outside  the  gate  through  which  they 
must  pass. 

"  Gude  for  ye,  Jack,  lad,"  he  cried  as  he  joined  them  and 
hurried  to  the  steps  where  lay  a  boat  in  readiness.  "Gude 
for  ye,  ma  son.  Ah'm  coomin'  wi'  ye  masen,  an'  odds  the 
sluckit-sasser business.  Wha  wouldn't?  Socks!  Ah'm  think- 
in'  ah've  getten  t'  flee,  under  ma  hammer  noo.  All  awa,  lad! 
Ower  wi'  us  t'  yonder  tuggie.  Eigh!  Jack  too.  Eigh! 
Missis  Surritch,  what  like  d'ye  ca'  it  noo?" 

He  gripped  one  after  the  other  by  the  hand,  shaking  them 
effusively.  His  face  was  a-pucker  with  smiles.  There  was 
no  fear  of  failure  in  Tony's  heart.  He  spoke  and  acted  as  one 
who  has  triumphed,  who  at  the  end  of  a  race  was  first  past  the 
tape. 

They  came  to  the  Stormy  Petrel's  ladder  and  bestowed  them- 
selves on  her  bridge,  where  Micky  Doolan  stood  waiting  to 
give  the  signal  to  weigh  anchor.  Mrs.  Surridge,  who  found 
herself  now  for  the  first  time  afloat,  and  without  her  husband, 
approached  the  skipper  with  anxiety  written  in  every  line  of 
her  kindly  features.  "Capting  Doolan,"  she  whispered, 
"what  Tom  would  think  if  so  be  he  knew  where  I  wuz,  I  can't 
imagine  no  more  than  Adam.  It  seems  to  me  that  I  should  go. 


MRS.  SURRIDGE  MOVES  357 

There's  no  other  woman  of  her  own  sect  to  see  her  straight. 
It's  my  dooty  an'  I'll  go  through  with  it  if  I  die." 

Micky  Doolan  unfastened  the  wheel  lashing  and:  stood 
ready  to  start.  "Ut's  good  av  ye  to  come,"  he  announced, 
"an'  as  fer  Tom  Surridge,  why  he'd  say  the  same  if  you  ask 
me." 

Mrs.  Surridge  hastened  to  fill  the  ensuing  pause.  "To 
think,"  she  exclaimed,  "as  that  poor  lamb's  bin  dissuaded  to 
go  an'  meet  that — himage — that — well,  there,  what  can  a  per- 
son call  a  chap  with  a  passel  o'  wives  like  that?  Sakes  alive! 
he  ain't  a  man.  He's  a  Norman — that's  what  he  is." 

Elliott  came  along  the  main  deck  calling  to  them:  "All 
ready  there,  Micky?" 

"Aye,  Jack — all  ready." 

"Go  straight  for  the  Nore.  Don't  think  of  anything  else. 
We  must  overhaul  them.  Let  her  away." 

Then  turning  abruptly  he  rejoined  the  crew  and  busied  him- 
self aiding  them  to  stow  the  anchor.  Mrs.  Surridge  watched 
him  tearfully. 

"Well,"  she  remarked  in  tones  that  quivered,  "if  that  ain't 
what  I  call  affection,  I  don't  know  nothing  about  it.  Some 
folks,"  she  went  on,  addressing  Tony  Crow  and  the  skipper 
in  turn,  "some  folks  say  there  aint'  no  sich  thing.  But  I  say 
it's  what's  at  the  back  o'  that.  Ever  since  he  were  that  high," 
Mrs.  Surridge  measured  some  three  feet  from  the  deck,  "he've 
just  wushupped  the  ground  the  gell  trod  on.  An'  now  he's 
goin'  to  save  her.  Ah,  Tony  Crow,  you  may  laugh,  but  Old 
Moore's  right.  Danger  to  a  crow-ned  head ;  wars  an' rumours 
o'  wars,  wid  trouble  in  the  ager-i-culteral  districs  come  Decem- 
ber. All  of  which  has  come  to  pass.  And  if  that  plophet," 
she  concluded  with  a  touch  of  regret,  "had  only  spotted  how 
things  would  run  in  Febuary,  I'd  say  as  the  King  might  do 


358  THE  ISSUE 

wuss  than  bear  him  in  mind  next  time  he's  ladling  out  them 
barrownices." 

A  voice  from  the  men  engaged  forward  brought  her  remarks 
to  a  close  and  the  skipper  turned  to  the  engine-room  gong 
which  he  smote  with  his  heel. 

"All  away  it  is!"  he  cried.  "Full  speed,  my  son — full 
speed!" 

Then  with  a  roll  of  machinery  and  a  sudden  hiss  of  foam 
the  Stormy  Petrel  moved  from  her  anchorage  and  headed  down 
river. 


The  day  was  fast  closing  in.  Dark  banks  of  cloud  lay  heavily 
massed  on  the  horizon.  The  wind  was  failing  and  when  at 
length  they  reached  the  Jenkin  the  night  was  fully  come.  But 
now  the  moon  crept  through  the  eastern  banks  and  hung  there 
red  and  angry  to  mark  the  driving  scud.  A  stern  night;  a 
night  of  presage  and  warning  to  all  those  huddled  craft  lying 
at  pause  waiting  the  tide  which  should  free  them. 

A  gale  was  growing  out  there  on  the  heaving  sea;  a  hint  of 
the  power,  couched  and  dormant  as  yet,  but  flaunting  hourly 
its  approach,  raced  across  the  moon's  red  face  until  with  the 
passage  of  time  it  had  mounted  from  those  strangling  banks 
and  looked  down  in  misty  serenity  on  the  twisting  lane  of 
waters  winding  there  towards  London. 

But  the  Stormy  Petrel's  crew  heeded  nothing  of  this.  They 
moved  onward,  staring  into  the  sheen,  searching  the  river  with 
tireless  eyes,  swearing,  commenting.  Now  and  again  they 
came  upon  an  outward  bound  vessel  lying  with  flapping  sails 
and  groaning  rudder  in  the  lap  of  the  swell.  If  she  chanced  to 
be  a  barge  they  steered  to  examine  her;  if  not  they  passed  un- 
heeding. 


MRS.  SURRIDGE  MOVES  359 

Each  man  of  the  crew  was  on  the  look  out.  No  one  thought 
of  sleep.  Even  the  cantankerous  firemen  forgot  to  agitate  for 
fewer  hours,  for  Elliott  had  been  among  them  and  told  his 
story.  As  nothing  succeeds  like  success,  so,  conversely,  noth- 
ing is  so  damnable  as  failure.  And,  following  the  law,  on  Wind- 
bag Saunderson  there  fell  a  growing  chorus  of  promised  ven- 
geance. The  unsuccessful  leader  of  the  strike!  The  bully  of 
the  river!  The  man  of  destiny  and  the  murderer  of  Dunscombe 
— the  thing  was  plain.  Saunderson  lay  in  the  toils. 

It  was  nearly  six  o'clock  when  they  steamed  past  the  Nore 
and  turned  to  search  the  Medway  anchorage.  As  time  crawled 
on  Elliott's  misery  increased.  Susie  must  be  with  this  man 
now.  It  was  impossible  to  conceive  any  further  respite.  The 
mist  was  denser  here;  but  what  of  that?  The  wind  which 
should  help  the  Red  Gauntlet  had  failed;  again,  what  of  that? 
Was  there  not  a  tide  ?  Was  it  not  possible  to  a  man  of  Saunder- 
son's  tenacity  to  hide  somewhere  in  this  labyrinthic  maze  of 
channels,  creeks,  and  backwaters?  to  hide,  to  bide  his  time, 
and  to  creep  away  under  cover  of  that  same  mist  ?  True.  But 
in  this  matter  Elliott  in  common  with  the  rest  had  failed  to 
pierce  the  man's  depth.  They  knew  nothing  of  the  force  that 
dogged  him  and,  had  they  known,  would  not  have  appreciated 
its  value.  A  river  man  is  what  he  appears  to  be.  His  life,  his 
trend,  his  actions  are  of  the  surface.  One  does  not  suspect 
depths,  and  subtlety  of  thought  is  a  thing  distinguished  from 
subtlety  of  action.  The  former  is  undiscussed,  the  latter  ad- 
mitted but  scarcely  understood. 

At  this  moment  the  things  which  stood  out  were  plain  for  all 
men  to  read,  and  the  rest  had  no  part  among  a  race  who  speak 
their  minds  when  they  have  anything  to  say,  and  act  on  the 
spur  when  anything  is  to  be  done. 

Therefore  they  walked  the  bridge  and  main  deck  growling  and 


360  THE  ISSUE 

promising  one  to  the  other  what  would  happen  to  "Win'bag" 
when  they  met,  until  a  bright  glare  springing  up  on  their  eastern 
horizon  brought  all  to  a  halt. 

They  had  turned  the  vessel  some  time  earlier  and  were  now 
"sweeping"  the  river  going  toward  the  Nore.  The  moon  was 
momentarily  hidden  and  the  estuary  rolled  blacker  for  her 
absence.  A  voice  broke  the  silence: 

"Ut's  a  boatman's  signal.  Arroo!  if  ut  wass  the  Rid  Gaunt- 
let, glory  be,  Amin.  Let  her  away!" 

Elliott  approached  the  skipper,  "Steady,  Micky!"  he  cried, 
"Maybe  it's  the  police.  Steer  for  her,  my  son;  steer  for  her." 

"Whisht!  I'd  clane  forgot  them.     Right;  we'll  take  a  look." 

He  put  the  wheel  over  and  the  tug  headed  for  the  Oaze. 
The  flare  had  vanished  yet  they  crept  on  in  silent  expectation, 
waiting,  as  Micky  said,  "fer  the  end  av  things,"  and  straining 
their  eyes  with  the  elusive  light. 

Then  again  the  flare  grew  bright  and  they  saw  a  small  blotch 
lying  on  the  swell;  a  little  smudge  of  grayness  thrown  into 
bolder  relief  by  the  flaming  oil.  There  was  no  longer  need  for 
doubt.  It  was  a  boat,  possibly  the  boat  for  which  they  searched, 
the  boat  which  had  tracked  Saunderson  thus  far  on  his  journey. 

The  Stormy  Petrel  crashed  on  without  pause.  They  passed 
a  barge  lying  under  the  tail  of  the  sands  and  hailed  her: 

"What  d'ye  make  of  yonder  light?" 

"A  boatman  wanting  a  pluck  belike." 

"Aye,  so  I  thought." 

"A  dirty  night's  lying  behind  that  swell,  skipper." 

"You're  right.    S'long." 

"So  long,  matee." 

They  crept  onward  and  in  five  minutes  were  slowing  engines 
besides  the  flare  which  again  burned  to  mark  the  position. 
Then  a  voice  came  out  to  greet  them:  "Tug  ahoy! " 


MRS.  SURRIDGE  MOVES  361 

"  Hello !    What  boat  is  that  ?  " 

"Thames  police.  Where  are  you  bound?  Give  us  a  pull 
up." 

"Aye,  my  sons.  Jump  aboard.  We  were  lookin'  fer  yez — 
jump  aboard." 

The  crew  clustered  about  them  as  they  reached  the  deck; 
their  questions  fell  in  a  rugged  stream : 

"Hast  seed  the  Red  Gauntlet?" 

"Wheer  in  Gawd's  name  is  the  Red  Gauntlet?" 

"What  of  Saunderson?" 

Then  Elliott  came  forward  and  displayed  the  card  he  had 
received  and  the  inspector  took  up  the  halting  answer. 

"So  you  are  Jack  Elliott!  Ah!  it's  well  you  have  that  note, 
lad.  The  Red  Gauntlet?  Yes.  She's  away  for  Maiden — 
bound  up  the  Black  Deep  as  fast  as  the  wind  will  let  her.  We 
can  do  no  good  here.  They  will  stop  her  when  she  arrives." 

"Saunderson  will  never  go  to  Maiden,"  Elliott  broke  in  with 
a  gust  of  passion.  "He  has  stolen  the  girl  away  from  her 
home.  He  will  never  go  there  now  he  knows  we  are  after 
him." 

"Stolen  the  girl — again?  Ah!  then  that's  what  he  was 
doing  lying  around  in  the  Swatch  this  twelve  hours.  Good. 
We  can  save  the  girl — if  the  skipper  here  is  game  to  run  a  bit 
outside  his  owner's  orders;  but  the  man  will  have  to  be  ashore 
before  we  can  touch  him." 

"Is  that  so?"     Elliott  questioned. 

"With  my  powers  I  can  go  no  farther." 

"Begorra!"  Micky  Doolan  asserted,  "thin  I  don't  think 
much  av  yer  warrant  annyway.  Whhat'll  we  be  afther?" 

"Get  him  ashore,  my  lad.  Persuade  him  to  land."  The 
inspector  came  near  and  tapped  him  on  the  shoulder.  "Per- 
suade him  to  land,  cap'n,  and  you  shall  see  what  you  shall  see." 


362  THE  ISSUE 

Micky  Doolan  took  his  meaning  and  struck  vigorously  at  his 
own  outstretched  palm.  "We  will  that,"  he  cried.  "Arroo! 
lave  ut  to  us,  sorr — lave  ut  to  us  an'  say  where  you  want  me  to 
stheer." 

"Let  her  away  for  the  Deeps,  my  son,"  he  returned,  "for 
at  dusk  the  Red  Gauntlet  was  flapping  along  this  side  of  the 
Mouse,  heading  for  Barrow  Deep." 

A  chorus  of  noisy  speech  drifted  up  from  the  men  waiting 
beneath  the  bridge  as  Micky  sprang  to  the  wheel  and  punched 
the  gong. 

"Sorr,  you're  the  foinest  man  I've  seen  this  soide  av  Kilk- 
kenny,"  he  announced.  "Full  speed,  me  son,  let  her  out." 

The  Stormy  Petrel  swept  across  the  estuary,  wallowing  with 
the  sullen  splash  that  accompanies  a  rolling  vessel.  No  one 
spoke  now.  Each  man  knew  that  it  was  but  a  question  of 
minutes  before  they  came  up  with  the  chase;  and  each  man 
hugged  his  own  pet  theory  of  punishment. 

The  night  was  less  dark.  A  misty  sheen  lay  across  the 
distant  sands,  hazy,  white,  indefinite  in  the  eye  of  a  scud- veiled 
moon ;  the  swell  showed  up  in  serried  lines  of  shadow,  like  the 
ranks  of  an  army  moving  across  a  sun-lit  plain.  The  song  of 
the  surf  came  down  to  greet  them;  the  drone  of  the  pulsing 
engines,  the  flap  of  paddles  incessantly  churning  the  gray  river — 
these  were  sounds  accompanying  them  as  they  came  within 
range  of  that  green  light  swinging  so  slowly  across  the  Channels. 


CHAPTER  VI 
BILL  MARLEY 

MEANWHILE  the  Red  Gauntlet  was    under  way  and 
Saunderson,  standing  silent  at  the  wheel,  steered  for 
the  Deeps. 

For  twenty-four  hours  he  had  lived  a  new  life;  hope  had 
returned  to  him,  he  had  dreamed  dreams,  seen  visions  and 
imagined  that  his  luck  was  changing — his  luck,  the  thing  which 
had  baffled  him  all  these  months,  had  changed.  Susie  was  on 
board.  He  had  won.  With  Susie  he  argued  that  his  life,  his 
future  was  safe.  He  swore  it  as  he  watched  her  coming  along- 
side, swore  it,  as,  without  any  great  persuasion,  he  saw  her 
descend  into  the  cabin.  At  that  moment  he  walked  on  air. 
But  as  they  picked  up  anchor  and  started  toward  the  goal  he 
had  in  view,  a  new  thought  came  to  trouble  him.  He  had 
overshot  the  mark.  Hours  had  elapsed,  and  the  conditions  so 
favourable  when  he  formed  his  plans,  had  already  taken  a  new 
turn  to  baffle  him. 

Two  facts  presented  themselves  as  he  came  from  his  stealthy 
pause  in  the  Swatch.  The  wind  was  failing  and  Fisherman's 
Gat  lay  full  in  his  track. 

The  signals  flaunting  in  the  gray  dome  overhead  pointed 
with  remorseless  irony  to  a  dying  breeze;  the  scud  moving  so 
swiftly  from  the  southeast;  the  hollow  lap  of  the  undriven 
wavelets;  the  whang  and  flutter  of  sails  towering  far  into  the 
night — all  were  indications  a  tyro  could  hardly  misinterpret, 
certainly  no  sailor  could  misread. 

363 


364  THE  ISSUE 

A  calm  awaited  them.  A  calm,  a  forced  detention  perhaps 
in  the  vicinity  of  the  Gat  itself.  It  was  a  hindrance  of  which 
he  had  not  dreamed,  a  thing  altogether  small  and  too  un- 
worthy to  have  required  anticipation.  And  yet  it  faced  him. 

At  first  these  matters  loomed  only  vaguely  in  the  man's 
imagination.  They  had  appeared  as  untoward  incidents  too 
disagreeable  to  contemplate  with  serenity;  but  with  time, 
they  grew,  and  when  presently  the  barge  drew  past  the  light 
sweeping  from  the  Nore  and  he  learned  precisely  how  slow  was 
their  progress,  the  rememberance  of  Susie's  presence  and  the 
aid  she  could  give  him,  were  nearly  obliterated  by  fear — fear 
induced  solely  by  the  fact  of  a  failing  breeze. 

He  stood  on  now  in  sullen  hope;  passively  watching  Dame 
Nature's  signals  and  marking  the  flight  of  time.  Nothing  he 
could  do  would  alter  the  conditions.  He  dared  not  turn  tail 
and  run  for  the  Medway  and  he  dared  not  anchor  for  fear  of 
pursuit.  Thus,  in  the  tardy  hour  of  his  triumph,  when  circum- 
stance had  appeared  to  smile  more  favourably  upon  him,  he 
found  himself  again  thrust  into  the  position  he  dreaded  perhaps 
more  than  all  on  earth. 

He  stamped  on  the  deck,  thinking  grimly  of  his  monstrous 
luck.  A  recollection  crossed  him  and  he  swore.  The  mate,  a 
noisy,  truculent,  and  uncivil  ruffian,  a  man  not  likely  to  be  troub- 
led with  a  delicate  conscience,  had  manifested  signs  of  dis- 
approval while  they  were  getting  under  way.  What  had  come 
to  him,  Saunderson  could  not  guess.  It  was  curious.  Chks! 
He  threw  the  incident  to  the  winds  and  giving  his  attention 
again  to  the  compass,  watched  until  they  crept  like  a  phantom 
to  a  position  opposite  the  Mouse. 

Night  brooded  heavily  on  the  face  of  the  waters;  a  solemn 
night,  turgid,  lacking  breath,  and  painted  at  intervals  by  the 
green  flare  flung  by  the  lightship.  It  was  quiet  too;  quiet  as 


BILL  MARLEY  365 

the  buoys  marking  the  Channel:  nothing  could  have  been  less 
opportune  and  to  a  man  of  Saunderson's  type,  nothing  more 
appalling.  The  scud  raced  through  space  revealing  fleeting 
gleams  of  moonlight.  There  was  wind  coming,  a  whole  pot- 
ful  from  the  'southeast — meanwhile  there  must  first  ensue  a 
calm. 

The  wind  slowly  failed.  The  lightship  seemed  chained 
abeam.  They  sagged  onward — a  mile,  perhaps  two,  with 
whanging  sprit  and  flapping  sails,  then  at  about  midnight 
there  came  the  knowledge  that  the  remaining  hours  of  darkness 
must  be  passed  within  sight  of  the  sands. 

Saunderson's  mental  torture  increased  as  he  stood  there 
steering,  gazing  furtively  at  the  puny  wavelets,  noting  his 
distances,  and  recognising  the  steady  drift  of  events.  It  was 
monstrous.  It  was  devilish.  Why  had  he  been  thus  singled 
out,  marked  down,  and  pursued  ?  What  had  he  done  to  de- 
serve it?  He  had  done  nothing — nothing.  He  called  God 
to  witness  that  what  had  happened  had  not  been  of  his  ordering. 
Events  had  grown  precisely  as  this  calm  was  growing  He  had 
no  volition  in  the  matter.  No  one  had  volition — the  thing 
was  an  accident,  beyond  his  control ;  fashioned  perhaps  by  the 
very  force  which  now  conspired  to  lay  him  by  the  heels.  What 
could  he  do?  What  could  anyone  do?  Nothing — nothing. 

He  stared  into  the  depths,  muttering,  questioning,  listening; 
until  a  faint  cry  fell  upon  his  ears.  Far  off  it  sounded,  far  off 
and  resonant,  like  the  clang  of  a  distant  gong.  He  glanced 
about,  and  for  an  instant  his  pulses  throbbed  to  the  memory  of 
another  cry;  then  in  an  instant,  and  with  a  flush  of  joy,  he 
recollected  Susie's  presence  in  the  cabin.  It  was  Susie  who 
cried  to  him;  Susie,  his  wife,  before  whose  presence  the  chimeras 
which  so  oppressed  him  would  disappear.  She  was  his.  He 
argued  that  his  other  wife  being  dead,  Susie  was  his  wife. 


366  THE  ISSUE 

She  had  come  without  any  protest;  she  would  forget  the  past, 
and  presently  would  love  him.  And  he  ?  There  was  no  need 
to  wait.  His  love  was  hers;  he  had  given  it — in  blood,  in 
tears,  in  sweat,  in  gold  he  had  given  it  and  she  was  his.  No 
other  living  soul  could  claim  her  now. 

A  swell  heavier  than  those  hitherto  encountered,  interrupted 
the  seething  thoughts.  The  barge  lurched  far  to  windward 
and  fell  back  in  the  trough  with  a  dismal  clang.  Saunderson 
stared  into  the  murk;  the  noise  jarred  his  nerves.  He  shouted 
to  the  mate  to  pass  the  lee  vang  forward  and  watched  to  see  it 
done. 

Marley  executed  the  order,  then,  leaning  against  the  rail, 
looked  at  his  commander. 

"Simes  to  me,"  he  remarked,  "we'd  best  dahn  kellick — 
there  ain't  enough  wind  to  blow  aw'y  a  mosqueta." 

"I  don't  anchor  here,"  Saunderson  replied  gruffly. 

"W'y  not,  Skipper?" 

"What  in  flames  is  that  t'  you." 

The  mate  stared.  "'Tain't  much  suttin'ly,"  he  returned. 
Then  crossing  the  deck  he  lounged  against  the  vang  fall,  and 
commenced  whistling  one  of  the  only  tunes  he  knew : 

"We're  bound  to  the  Rio  Grande." 

Saunderson  bore  this  for  some  time;  but  when  Marley 
entered  on  the  fifth  stanza,  he  grew  impatient.  "Stow  that!" 
he  shouted.  "Who  in  thunder  wants  to  hear  about  U-rio?" 

The  mate  chuckled.  "You're  as  bad  as  a  south-Spainer, 
Skip,"  he  cried  out.  "None  of  'em  can  stand  w'istlin'  in  a 
cawlm.  They  s'y  it  brings  ill  luck." 

Saunderson  cast  his  eyes  up  wind.  "Luck  an'  you  be  ever- 
lastingly damned!"  he  roared.  "What  d'  you  know  about 
such  things?" 

The  mate  maintained  his  careless  attitude.     The  sound  of 


BILL  MARLEY  367 

wrath  appeared  to  amuse  him,  still  he  looked  up  to  explain. 
"  Don't  know  as  I  know  a  lot,"  he  said;  "but  I  mind  a  cise  as 
struck  me  funny.  We're  goin'  round  the  'Orn.  I'm  in  a 
Yank,  a  reg'lar  'ot  un;  an'  just  as  we're  drawrin'  dahn  to 
Staten  Island,  we  drop  inta  one  of  them  smokin'  souf-easters. 
Blow!  Lumme,  it'ud  a  blowed  the  roof  off  a  cive — fer  three 
d'ys  it  would.  Then  comes  a  cawlm,  just  fer  all  the  world 
like  this,  an'  we  lie  slammin'  abaat  fer  a  tosty  spell. 

"There's  a  cove  at  the  w'eel  one  d'y,  w'istlin'  a  toon  to  pawss 
aw'y  the  time.  The  old  man  come  on  deck.  Gor'me!  'ee's 
a  lush-bag,  that  skipper — 'ee'd  a  drunk  the  Trider  dry  in  a 
'our.  Simes  us  if  'ee'd  'ad  a  skeer  sometime;  anyway  up 
'ee  comes  to  the  bloke  at  the  w'eel,  an'  splits  'is  scull  open  wi 
a  knuckle-duster. 

"The  cove  lies  dahn.  'Ee  don't  ever  get  up  any  more,  an' 
the  skipper,  wot  wi  the  drink  an'  the  skeer,  goes  flamin'  dotty, 
an'  that  night,  wen  it's  uz  dawk  uz  the  inside  of  a  drine,  'ee 
tikes  a  walk  aat  into  the  sea,  an'  drahns." 

The  mate  chuckled  at  the  rememberance.  He  came  a  pace 
nearer  and  continued:  "Shikes!  'ee  were  a  beauty,  'ee  were. 
Too  bad  to  drahn,  'ee  were.  'Ung  floatin'  abaat  fer  three 
d'ys  on  end,  then  the  mate  aats  boat  an'  limbers  'un  to  a  old 
anchor  shackle,  an'  'ee  slumps." 

Saunderson  watched  his  companion,  but  made  no  sign.  He 
noted  that  Marley  was  already  occupied  with  their  near  ap- 
proach to  the  sands,  and  was  content  to  follow  his  gaze. 

The  Mouse  lay  glinting  in  the  tricky  moonlight.  A  wreath 
of  foam  curled  high  across  the  barrier.  Saunderson  fumbled 
with  the  wheel,  growling  over  his  shoulder:  "Ease  off  your 
sheets!  Let  'em  flow.  We'll  run  her  in  an'  take  her  up  the 
Swin." 

The  mate  laughed  aloud.     He  shouted  in  disdain.     "Take 


368  THE  ISSUE 

'er  up  the  Swin — will  yer?  Where's  the  wind  to  mike  us 
run?" 

"There's  a  breeze  comin'  up.  The  moon's  scoffing  the 
dirt."  The  skipper  held  his  hand  aloft  feeling  for  the  breeze 
for  which  he  prayed.  Marley  did  as  he  was  ordered;  but  the 
Red  Gauntlet  sagged  on  unheeding.  He  commented  on  the  fact 
gruffly,  as  one  who  had  predicted  precisely  what  was  happening. 

"Tole  ye  so.  Simes  uz  if  our  luck's  goin'  to  shove  us  a  top 
of  the  san's.  Better  let  go  the  mud'ook,  Skipper,  an'  go  an' 
look  a\vfter  yer  disy  dahn  aft." 

A  noise  had  reached  the  mate's  ears  while  they  argued. 
Saunderson  remained  staring  up  channel  in  the  direction  of 
the  Gat.  He  seemed  to  have  forgotten,  but  the  mate  urged  the 
matter  with  a  tinge  of  impatience.  "Skipper,"  he  cried; 
"wot  abaht  'er  dahn  aft.  I  don't  want  nothin'  to  do  wi  it; 
but  square's  square,  an'  if  it  ain't  square  w'y  it's  round,  an' 
that's  strite." 

Saunderson  turned  on  him  with  an  oath:  "Get  you  out  of 
this.  She's  my  wife,  "  he  growled. 

"Gam!"  said  the  mate.  "'Oo  are  you  gettin'  at.  An' 
she  come  aboord  t'  find  'er  father.  Garn!  skipper — try  it  on 
Spuds." 

Spuds  was  the  dog  who  hung  close  at  Marley's  heels,  growl- 
ing furtively  at  ever  lurch.  Saunderson  turned  to  look  at  his 
mate.  He  measured  himself  against  this  new  force;  this 
inexplicable  and  obtrusive  addition  to  his  burdens,  and  found 
he  confronted  a  man  as  heavy  as  himself,  as  tall;  a  man  who 
had  the  look  of  one  who  understood  the  use  of  his  hands.  He 
had  nothing  to  say,  but  Marley  added  with  ready  sarcasm: 
"She  might  be  yer  wife,  b'  the  w'y  ye  treat  'er.  Locked  up  in 
the  bloomin'  kebbin  uz  if  she'd  pison  the  Thames  b'  lookin' 
at  it.  Let  'er  aat.  Cawn't  ye  'ear  'er  bellerin'  ?  " 


BILL  MARLEY  369 

Saunderson  turned  impatiently  forward.  "Let  go  the 
anchor;  wind  in  on  your  brails,"  he  ordered.  "We're  goin' 
down  tide — straight  for  the  sands." 

"A  course  we  are,"  said  the  mate.  "In  another  minute  we 
look  like  bein'  a  bloomin'  beacon  on  the  san's.  Ho,  yus; 
I'll  dahn  kellick  right  enough.  Then  we'll  'ave  yer  dicky  bird 
up,  an'  'ear  'er  cheep."  He  went  forward  at  once  and  Saunder- 
son unfastened  the  scuttle  and  descended.  He  decided  that 
he  must  gain  Susie's  sympathy,  persuade  her  to  aid  him;  then 
together  they  might  face  the  mate  with  a  refutation  of  his 
suggestions.  The  noise  of  his  approach  aroused  the  girl,  and 
she  rose  to  stand  beside  the  cabin  table.  Saunderson  halted 
at  the  foot  of  the  ladder  to  watch. 

She  was  very  beautiful.  Her  flushed  face  and  dancing  eyes; 
the  ruffled,  golden  hair  straying  about  her  forehead,  and  the 
easy  pose  of  her  graceful  figure,  made  a  picture  which  instantly 
drove  from  the  man's  mind  those  troublesome  questions  which 
would  not  allow  him  rest.  Again  he  only  saw  Susie;  again 
her  beauty  intervened  and  put  to  flight  his  dread;  again,  as  he 
watched  her,  his  wife's  words  recurred:  "You  will  win  her 
and  you  shall  die."  He  had  won.  He  advanced  to  meet  her 
with  outstretched  arms. 

"Susie,"  he  cried  in  quick,  half-gasping  tones;  "I  had  to  lie 
to  get  you  here — because — I  could  not  stay.  My  wife  is  dead. 
You  are  my  wife.  Come  over  and  talk.  You  look  fair  lovely, 
lass.  Come  over  an'  talk." 

The  girl  made  no  answer;  she  shrank  into  the  farthest 
corner  of  the  cabin,  watching  him  in  terror.  Saunderson 
halted  near  the  stove. 

"Come,"  he  begged.  "All  is  fair  in  love — an'  you  know  I 
love  you.  I  did  what  you  asked  me  about  father.  I  married 
you.  You  promised  to  come  to  love  me  wiv  time.  Now  my 


370  THE  ISSUE 

wife  is  dead  an'  you  are  my  wife.  Don't  you  see  I  can  claim 
you?  Can't  you  understand  that  at  last  you  will  be  able  to 
come  to  me  wivout  talk  from  any  living  soul?  Can't  you  see 
it?  You're  not  sorry — Gawd's  life,  you're  not  sorry?  Susie, 
I've  put  it  plainly — come  over  an'  talk." 

He  paused,  extending  his  arms  for  her;  but  the  girl's  courage 
had  returned.  She  broke  into  the  pause  without  hesitation. 

"I  am  not  your  wife,"  she  cried;  "you  have  lied  to  me,  you 
have  cheated  me;  you  have  done  everything  to  wreck  my  life, 
and  now " 

Saunderson's  voice  leaped  upon  hers,  overlapping  it,  drown- 
ing it.  "Stop!"  he  shouted.  "Don't  say  a  word  more  until 
you've  remembered  what  happened  first.  Stop!  You  too  played 
me  a  dirty  trick.  Susie,  you  made  game  of  me  before  my 
mates;  you  refused  to  trust  me  when  I  begged  for  time — but  I 
love  you.  Child!  I  love  you  and  I'm  ready  to  forget  all,  if 
you  will  agree  to  play  it  square  in  future.  Wait!  Let  me  say 
my  say.  It  isn't  every  man  that  would  do  as  much;  but  I  do 
it,  an'  I  do  it  because  I  love  you.  Lass!  you  can  score  my  face 
if  you  will ;  you  can  wipe  your  pretty  shoes  on  my  chest  if  you 
want  to;  you  can  do  as  you  like  with  me — only  don't  speak 
hastily;  don't  say  things  we  may  wish  forgotten.  Gawd  love 
you,  Susie;  if  I  can't  make  you  happy,  I'll  die,"  he  reiterated 
the  sentence  very  solemnly.  "I  mean  it;  I'll  die." 

Twice  she  had  attempted  to  break  in  on  his  words;  but  on 
each  occasion  he  raised  his  voice  and  she  was  compelled  to 
listen.  Now,  as  he  paused,  she  turned  upon  him  with  an 
angry  gesture.  "Silence!"  she  cried.  "How  dare  you  talk 
to  me  of  love.  I  am  not  your  wife,  and  even  if  I  were,  do  you 
think  I  would  consent  to  live  with  the  man  who  killed  Duns- 
combe?" 

She  flung  the  words  at  him  with  such  headlong  passion,  that 


BILL  MARLEY  371 

for  a  moment  he  failed  to  grasp  their  meaning.  Then  his  face 
darkened  his  eyes  took  a  savage  glint,  and  he  moved  slowly 
toward  the  table  like  a  man  on  the  edge  of  a  seizure.  "What's 
that  you  say?"  he  mumbled  slowly,  "what's  that — you  say?" 

She  turned  on  him  with  a  voice  that  rang  sharply  in  the 
small  cabin:  "I  say  that  Tony  has  discovered  it  all.  I  say 
that  Jack  has  returned.  ThaA  Jack,  who  was  accused  of  the 
murder  you  committed,  has  come  home — that  he  will  be  set 
free  and  that  you  will  be  arrested  when  you  reach  Maiden — 
if  not  before." 

"Ah-h-h!" 

The  man  breathed  through  drawn  nostrils.  He  stood  like 
a  pointer  scenting  game,  quietly  stiffening.  He  gripped  the 
table  edge  with  both  hands  and  waited  in  silence,  searching 
her  with  his  eyes. 

At  length,  moving  stealthily  towards  her  and  speaking  with 
obvious  difficulty.  "Wait!"  he  ordered,  and  for  a  moment 
maintained  the  silence.  Then  again,  still  very  intent  on  the 
cowering  figure  he  faced,  watching  the  tears  that  welled — 

"So  you  have  heard  that,  have  you?  An'  I  have  to  thank 
Tony  Crow  for  it  too.  Tony  Crow  seems  bent  on  botching 
his  hand — and  mine. 

"  Arrest  me — will  they  ?  At  Maiden — is  it  ?  Nay,  lass,  they 
will  never  arrest  Jim  Saunderson.  Mark  me!"  he  continued, 
his  voice  growing  in  power  as  his  brain  took  grip  of  the  situa- 
tion, "mark  what  I  tell  you.  They  will  never  take  me  any- 
where. Whish-h-h!  Elliott  has  come  home — has  he?  I  am 
to  be  taken  at  Maiden — am  I?  Susie,  you  don't  know  me. 
Flames!  What  d'  you  think  I  am?  A  fool?" 

The  man's  voice  rose,  but  there  was  no  snap  in  it.  His 
face  became  flushed  and  white  in  turn,  but  he  crept  towards 
the  girl,  staring  at  her,  begging  with  his  eyes. 


372  THE  ISSUE 

"Come  here!"  he  whispered.  "No;  I'll  not  hurt  you. 
You're  my  wife.  I'm  done." 

He  seemed  to  relapse  into  a  species  of  lethargy.  He  had 
forgotten  their  position;  he  had  forgotten  the  sullen  mate 
banging  with  ropes  on  the  hatches ;  his  thoughts  were  whirling 
amidst  the  scenes  through  which  he  had  come.  He  marked 
the  fact  that  it  was  for  Dunscombe  he  was  to  be  arrested,  and 
into  the  back  of  his  mind  there  stole  a  hint  of  the  irony  of  the 
situation — he  who  was  wanted  for  the  passing  of  Snuffles. 
And  Tony  Crow  had  set  this  matter  in  train.  Tony  Crow, 
the  man  who  had  taken  Susie  from  him  when  he  had  won  her. 
He  glanced  up  and  caught  the  girl's  eyes  fixed  upon  him,  and 
in  a  moment  the  desire  to  stand  well  in  her  remembrance 
mastered  him. 

"So  you  think  I  killed  Dunscombe,  do  you  ?"  he  questioned 
evenly.  "Wrong,  Susie,  wrong.  I  didn't  touch  Dunscombe; 
but  I  know  who  did." 

"Then  you  are  accessory  and  equally  to  blame,"  she  rapped 
out. 

"And  I'm  not  accessory,"  he  articulated  grimly. 

"If  you  knew  it  you " 

"Wait!    I  didn't  know." 

She  faced  him  in  silence  and  he  went  on: 

"I  had  my  suspicions;  but  I  didn't  know,  not  till  I  met  yon 
singed  man,  Tom  Goram,  in  hospital.  Ever  heard  his  name  ?  " 

Susie  signalled  assent. 

"Very  well,  the  singed  man's  dying.  He  was  hurt  that 
night  when  Dunscombe's  house  fell.  An'  he  told  me.  I'm 
called  in  to  see  him.  So  he  told  me.  And  it's  taken  down, 
signed,  and  witnessed.  It's  evidence." 

His  voice  leaped  a  moment  to  the  old  key:  "Tom  Goram — 
he  killed  Dunscombe — an'  if  Dunscombe  had  served  me  as 


BILL  MARLEY  373 

he  served  Tom  Goram,  I'd  have  killed  him  too — killed  him  if 
I  swung  for  it.  Why?  Why?  Gawd's  truth,  because  he 
made  a  cripple  of  Tom  Goram  and  a  slut  of  his  wife — that's 
why,  if  you  ask  me,  Susie." 

She  looked  up,  her  face  quivering,  but  Saunderson  went 
on  without  heeding: 

"You  think  I  didn't  know  of  Tony's  fossikin'  and  suspicions," 
he  jeered.  "Chks!  d'ye  think  I'm  a  fool?  Think  I  have  no 
eyes?  But  I  had  lost  the  box  the  blacksmith  gave  me  and  I 
wanted  to  find  who  had  it — that's  why  I  couldn't  speak,  you 
understand  ? 

"Well,  Tom  Goram  had  it.  He'd  stole  it.  And,  if  it's 
news  to  you,  he  dropped  it  the  night  Dunscombe  met  his  death 
— dropped  it  nigh  the  ditch." 

The  man's  voice  had  grown  in  strength.  He  spoke  with 
renewed  grip,  facing  this  matter  which  it  seemed  necessary  to 
explain;  but  behind  the  tone  there  lay  a  touch  of  self-pity  very 
difficult  to  recognise  and  keep  silence.  The  girl  essayed  to 
speak,  then  with  a  swift  turn  broke  into  tears. 

"It  is  terrible,"  she  faltered,  "and  it  may  not  be  true — how 
am  I  to  know  ?  " 

"As  Gawd  is  my  Maker,"  he  cried  out,  "it  is  the  truth.  I 
tell  you  because  I  want  you  to  judge  me  fair;  because  I  wouldn't 
have  you  so  ready  to  fling  hard  words  at  the  man  who  is  your 
husband." 

Again  he  relapsed  into  silence,  his  brain  busy  with  the 
sequence  of  events  as  they  appeared.  Dunscombe's  death, 
Elliott's  flight,  his  own  marriage  with  Susie,  his  wife's  return. 
Tony  Crow,  too,  had  added  his  quota.  It  seemed  that  he  had 
set  the  police  on  his  track  and  that  meant,  that  meant — 
Aye,  it  meant  all  things  to  Saunderson,  but  for  another  happen- 
ing; it  meant  arrest,  sentence,  death,  but  on  another  count. 


374  THE  ISSUE 

He  glanced  swiftly  about  the  cabin  and  caught  the  girl's  eyes 
resting  on  him.  The  thread  snapped.  He  advanced  a  step 
to  meet  her. 

"Come  here,  Susie,"  he  whispered.  "Let  me  hold  you 
once.  It's  the  end,  Lass.  Say  one  word  to  me  an'  I'll  go 
away  to  where  I  came  from.  Tell  me  that  you  would  have  got 
to  love  me  if — if  it  hadn't  been  for  this — this " 

He  mouthed  a  sentence  but  no  sound  came.  Susie  gazed, 
half  fascinated. 

"I  can't,"  she  shuddered.     "It  is  awful — awful." 

"Have  pity!     Gawd  love  you,  have  pity." 

The  plaint  touched  her  sense  of  justice.  If  he  suffered  now 
what  had  been  the  lot  of  those  against  whom  he  fought.  She 
cried  out  abruptly: 

"Had  you  pity?  Had  you  pity  on  Jack,  on  father,  on  any- 
one? Had  you " 

"Wait!"  his  voice  leaped  into  the  old  key.  "Had  they  any 
for  me  ?  Did  father  care  two  straws  what  came  of  me  so  long 
as  he  had  my  money?  Did  Elliott  care?  Did  they  stand  by 
me  or  did  they  fight  me?  Chks!  Elliott  has  returned.  What 
odds?  No  odds,  for  you  are  my  wife.  You  dare  not  fight 
me — you  dare  not  go  back  on  me — now." 

He  moved  towards  her,  holding  out  his  hands,  but  she 
retreated,  urging  him  to  leave  her.  "I  can't,"  she  cried.  "I 
am  not  your  wife.  You  married  me  when  your  wife  was 
alive;  therefore  I  am  not  your  wife." 

He  scarcely  heard.     He  continued  to  move  after  her. 

"Susie,  for  Gawd's  sake  don't  shrink  from  me.  I  can't 
hurt  you.  I  can't  crunch  you  in  my  arms,  for  you  are  my  wife 
an'  I  love  you.  Understand  what  that  means  ?  Chks !  They've 
got  their  nails  into  me,"  he  pointed  with  his  finger,  "  one  there — 
there's  no  wind;  another  there — we're  at  anchor;  another 


BILL  MARLEY  375 

there — the  Gat's  ahead  of  me.  It's  the  curse,  lass.  Gawd 
love  you,  say  a  word  to  help  me — one " 

The  girl  broke  into  a  passion  of  tears  and  Saunderson  caught 
her  in  his  arms.  The  dull  eyes,  so  heavy  with  the  weight  of  his 
sins,  so  heavy  with  the  knowledge  of  what  was  before  him,  stared 
mistily  at  this  girl,  lying  shuddering  and  weeping  in  his  grasp. 

"I  loved  you — I  loved  you,"  he  cried,  fierce  with  triumph. 
The  words  fell  in  a  rugged  stream.  They  fell  hot,  striking  her 
with  hammer-like  blows.  The  man's  agony  mastered  him  and 
he  cried  out  again:  " It  was  for  you  I  fought,  for  you  I  suffered, 
for  you,  as  Gawd  is  my  Judge.  If  I  had  seen  you  first,  before 
she  came,  it  would  have  been  different.  Have  pity!  One  word 
— can't?  Ahi  the  odds  are  against  me.  Always  were.  The 
curse,  Susie — the  curse : 

A  despairing  cry  broke  from  the  girl's  lips  as  he  leaned  over 
her,  crushing  her  to  him,  marking  the  leaping  colour,  the 
frightened  eyes;  then  a  footstep  sounded  on  the  deck  overhead, 
the  scuttle  was  flung  back,  and  the  mate  descended.  Susie's 
voice  had  reached  him  while  he  was  still  busy  with  the  sails  and 
instantly  recognising  there  was  trouble  afoot,  he  left  his  work 
and  came  aft. 

"Naa  then,  skipper!"  he  shouted.  "Fair  pl'y's  a  jewel. 
Drop  it  an'  come  on  deck." 

Saunderson  set  the  half-fainting  girl  on  the  settee  and  turned 
to  face  the  new  force.  There  was  in  his  eyes  the  look  of  a  tiger 
when  he  turns  from  his  mate  to  fight  an  enemy  lurking  in  the 
background;  but  he  moved  up  the  ladder  averting  his  gaze, 
without  answer,'  and  came  to  the  boat  trailing  astern.  He 
stooped  to  unfasten  the  painter  and  again  the  mate  stood  be- 
side him,  hampering  his  movements,  questioning  his  motives. 
He  desired  to  know  precisely  what  the  skipper  intended,  and 
Saunderson  looked  up  with  a  growl. 


376  THE  ISSUE 

"She's  going  ashore.  There's  bin  some  mistake,"  he 
announced. 

"Oh!  An'  'oo's  goin'  to  tike  'er?" 

"You  are." 

Marley  swore  vigorously  that  he  had  no  intention  of  playing 
the  goat  any  longer.  He  added  the  information  that  it  was 
twelve  miles  or  more  to  Southend  and  that  the  tide  still  ebbed. 
He  expressed  it  as  his  opinion  that  the  skipper  had  gone  balmy, 
soft  in  the  tater;  but  Saunderson  took  no  heed.  He  lashed  the 
boat  amidships  and  proceeded  to  unbuckle  his  belt.  He  held 
it  out  to  the  mate,  saying; 

"It's  yours  if  you  land  her — safe,  mind — at  Southend.  It's 
yours  wiv  what's  in  it." 

The  mate  stared. 

"'Ow  do  I  know  wot's  in  it?"  he  questioned  at  length. 

Saunderson  moved  to  the  binnacle.  "I'll  show  you,"  he 
said. 

Then  he  unfastened  the  leather  strap  about  a  thin,  flat  bag, 
and  opened  it.  "See?"  he  remarked.  "Gold.  One,  two, 
three,  four  pound — some  odd  shillin's.  I  have  no  use  for  it — 
d'you  take  on?" 

Marley  watched  him  out  of  small  eyes.  "  It's  a  gime  I  don't 
like,"  he  said.  "Wot's  be'ind  it  all  ?  I  don't  want  to  be  pulled 
up  fer  no  kidnappin'  gime.  Wot  abaat  the  gell?" 

"  Go  an'  ask  her.  Here,  take  this.  Give  it  to  her  an  'tell 
her  she's  to  give  that  loose  gold — same  as  I  counted  out — to  you 
when  you've  landed  her,  safe — safe,  mind!"  he  growled  the 
iteration.  "The  distance  is  nothing.  The  night's  quiet — 
smooth  as  oil.  The  tide  won't  hurt  you,  under  the  Sands. 
I'll  wait  here  till  you  come  back.  What  do  you  say?" 

Marley  considered  the  matter  from  this  new  standpoint. 
He  turned  on  his  heel  and  approached  the  cabin. 


MARLEY  377 

"If  the  gell  says  yes,"  he  decided,  "I'm  there." 

Saunderson  moved  forward.  He  stood  in  the  shadow  of 
the  mast  awaiting  the  result.  He  knew  what  that  would  be. 

Susie  would  go.  He  would  be  left  alone — alone  to Chks! 

the  mate  was  coming  up  the  steps.  He  saw  him  stoop  over 
the  boat.  Already? 

He  muttered  grimly  that  they  intended  to  lose  no  time — 
not  a  minute;  then  stood  gripping  the  brails,  marking  their 
movements,  fearful  lest  even  now  something  should  happen  to 
mar  the  plan  he  had  formed — to  mar  it!  Pish!  Susie  came  up 
the  ladder.  She  approached  the  rail,  looked  into  the  boat, 
and  stared  up  the  misty  sea.  Saunderson  found  voice  to  shout 
at  this  an  order  to  the  mate:  "Get  a  spare  coat — blanket — 
somethin'  to  wrap  her  in.  It's  cold." 

Marley  obeyed.  He  returned  laden  and  Susie  stepped  into 
the  boat.  She  huddled  down  amidst  the  wraps.  The  mate 
followed  her.  He  took  his  seat,  shipped  his  sculls,  pushed  off. 
They  moved  out  into  the  gray-white  sheen. 

Saunderson  stood  alone  now  by  the  mainmast  watching  the 
circling  ripples. 


CHAPTER  VII 
A  CHALLENGE 

AN  HOUR  Saunderson  stood  like  one  fascinated  by  the 
seascape;  a  sentinel  on  duty  with  no  knowledge  of 
what  that  duty  was. 

The  silence  whelmed  him.  A  certain  number  of  minutes 
ago  there  had  not  been  silence;  but  now  the  silence  had  come 
and  it  whelmed  him. 

Out  there  a  boat  moved  steadily  over  the  tide.  In  it  was 
the  mate  taking  home  again  that  girl  whose  presence  had  be- 
come a  burden;  whom  he  had  sent  ashore  lest  further  trouble 
should  ensue;  lest  by  chance  her  presence  prevented  him  mov- 
ing out  of  the  danger  zone,  carrying  into  effect  that  plan  he  had 
formed.  Plan  ?  What  plan  had  he  ?  Had  he  a  plan,  or  was 
it 

Saunderson  passed  down  the  companion  stairs  and  lifted  to 
lips  his  medicine. 


Again  an  hour  had  sped.  Saunderson  acknowledged  it; 
yet  something  hindered  him;  something,  the  gist  of  which  was 
lost  as  that  boat  was  becoming  lost.  He  was  unable  to  decide 
what  it  was.  It  appeared  that  he  desired  to  move  out,  to  pro- 
ceed across  that  turgid  stream  and  escape  from  the  forces  by 
which  he  was  hemmed. 

But  the  river  chained  him.  The  calm,  his  fears,  his  irreso- 
lution chained  him  and  he  remained  inert.  Once  he  told  him- 

378 


A  CHALLENGE  379 

self  he  could  have  moved ;  now  he  was  somnolently  content  to 
question  whether  if  he  moved  any  result  would  ensue. 

The  river  gurgled  in  his  ears.  It  played  about  the  leeboard, 
stirring  it,  throwing  up  little  rills.  The  sound  annoyed  him. 

It  interfered  with  the  sequence  of  his  thoughts,  prevented 
him  seeing  precisely  how  fast  the  boat  moved  out  there  amidst 
the  oily  stretches.  He  crossed  over  and  discovered  that  a  dead 
dog  had  fouled  the  chain.  He  leaned  over  with  a  boat  hook 
and  laboriously  pushed  it  away.  Again  there  was  silence. 


The  boat  faded  from  sight.  Her  outline  could  be  seen  now 
only  when  the  Mouse  swang  round;  then  for  a  moment  it 
stood  out  upon  the  greenish  sheen,  like  a  log  amidst  the  grass. 
He  marvelled  at  its  immobility  and  remembered  that  it  was 
distant,  distant  as  those  acts  of  his  which  had  borne  such  curi- 
ous fruit.  He  wondered  why  men  called  it  fruit,  why  so  much 
depended  on  what  we  do,  why  the  boat  hung  there  so  long,  a 
mere  blotch  to  pester  him;  why  that  greenish  tinge  recurred  so 
frequently  and  persistently. 

The  river  ran  steadily  onward  throwing  little  whirlpools  with 
a  vortex  of  mud — mud  like  smoke  which  rose  steadily  from  noth- 
ing. As  he  had  risen  from  the  dregs  of  humanity,  from  the 
scum  of  life  seething  in  the  whirlpools  of  our  cities,  so  the  mud 
rose  from  the  river's  depths,  without  apparent  cause,  without 
any  object  but  to  smudge  the  seascape.  Without  volition,  as 
in  his  case,  so  it  drifted  into  silence — drifted  on  the  path  he 
trod,  to  oblivion,  forgetfulness,  death.  Toward  the  one  cer- 
tain event  all  men  must  face. 

Saunderson  faced  it  now.  He  stared  into  depths  more  pro- 
found than  those  over  which  he  leaned;  but  irresolution  chain- 
ed him.  He  could  not  think  nor  decide;  yet  he  shouted 


380  THE  ISSUE 

aloud  that  it  was  the  one  thing  to  do,  and  straightway  fell  into 
vacuity. 

His  medicine  revived  him. 

•  •     -  •  *  •  •  •  • 

When  next  he  came  on  deck  the  boat  had  vanished.  He 
missed  it  with  a  thrill  of  anguish,  discovering  for  the  first  time 
that  he  was  alone.  The  silence  became  intrusive.  It  stepped  out 
of  the  void,  as  that  triangle  of  lights  down  there  was  coming  from 
the  void,  passed  down  the  shimmering  distance,  and  fell  upon 
hun  like  a  cloak;  as  presently  the  shadow  which  accompanied 
the  triangle  would  fall  upon  him  like  a  cloak. 

The  man  rose  and  moved  towards  the  companion.  The 
small  clock  in  the  cabin  skylight  raced  abominably.  It  spoke 
of  the  flight  of  time.  It  cried  out  to  him  with  an  idiotic  beat 
which  coincided  strangely  with  his  beating  heart.  It  annoyed 
hun.  He  crossed  over  and  silenced  it  forever. 

He  crept  into  the  cabin,  deciding  that  he  must  wait,  that  it 
was  necessary  the  mate  should  have  time  to  rejoin  him,  and 
lifted  again  his  medicine. 

But  he  did  not  drink.  A  sound  crept  in  upon  him — a 
long  and  dismal  cry  like  the  hoot  of  an  owl.  But  Saunderson 
knew  that  no  owl  cried  there.  He  knew  definitely  where  that 
sound  had  birth,  and  paused  there,  bottle  raised,  a  look  of 
horrible  dread  covering  his  features. 

He  set  the  bottle  down,  a  swift  movement,  and  slid  up  the 
companion;  but  here  he  went  slowly,  lifting  his  head  by  de- 
grees from  the  scuttle  as  though  he  would  see  this  thing  which 
came  to  pester  him,  see  it  and  smash  it  as  he  had  smashed  the 
clock. 

A  triangle  of  lights  approached;  the  apex  of  which  was 
white.  The  steady  flap  of  paddles  increased  in  volume;  on 
one  wheel  was  a  loose  float  grinding  in  a  fashion  which  indi- 


A  CHALLENGE  381 

cates  either  carelessness  or  cheeseparing.  To  Saunderson 
there  was  but  one  meaning  to  it  all.  This  boat  which  called 
with  the  voice  of  an  owl  and  rattled  with  a  float  in  her  star- 
board sponson  was  the  Stormy  Petrel;  the  vessel  on  which  he 
had  fought  Elliott  that  night  at  the  edge  of  the  Gat,  the  vessel 
owned  by  the  firm  which  once  had  acknowledged  Dunscombe 
as  its  lord — Dunscombe  for  whose  murder  it  appeared  he 
stood  charged. 

Saunderson  moved  into  the  shadow  of  the  mizzen  and  stood 
watching.  He  acknowledged  that  this  tug  was  the  Stormy 
Petrel  and  questioned  audibly  what  it  wanted  there;  but 
remained  irresolute,  staring  at  the  swirling  river  until  the  flap- 
ping ceased  and  a  voice  cried  out — the  voice  of  Micky 
Doolan: 

"Red   Gauntlet    there!    What    ho    there!     Red    Gauntlet." 

Again  Saunderson  relapsed  into  that  lethargy  which  had 
troubled  him.  His  mind  had  been  occupied  with  the  trend 
of  events,  with  the  stealthy  approach  of  that  thing  which  dog- 
ged him,  but  with  Micky's  voice  a  new  danger  sprang.  Micky 
Doolan  in  the  Stormy  Petrel?  Ah!  in  that  case  he  had  botched 
his  hand.  Micky  Doolan  Tony  Crow,  Jack  Elliott — they 
were  one — and  Elliott  had  returned.  He  acknowledged  the 
fatuity  of  waiting,  yet  waited  growling  and  apprehensive  of 
action. 

A  voice  came  up  to  him  from  the  boat  rowing  now  to  board 
him.  Who's  voice?  Chks!  what  odds.  The  thing  ap- 
proached manned  by  a  crowd.  A  crowd — he  counted  them  as 
they  drew  near:  one,  two,  three,  four,  five,  six.  Six  men  from 
the  Stormy  Petrel?  Ssss!  his  fancy  played  with  him.  It 
could  not  be.  The  tug  had  not  six  men  in  addition  to  the 
black  watch.  Saunderson  waited  there,  elbows  on  the  guard, 
searching  the  river  for  an  answer;  but  the  river  had  no  answer 


382  THE  ISSUE 

to  give.  It  ran  by  gurgling  and  aswirl  with  eddying  garbage 
and  no  hint  of  the  truth  appeared. 

The  boat  fell  alongside  in  the  waist.  The  noise  of  oars 
tumbling  inboard  and  the  hum  of  voices  as  men  climbed  the 
rail  awoke  him  and  he  lurched  forward,  truculent  and  vicious 
to  meet  them. 

"Who's  that?"    he  growled,  "an'  what  d'ye  want?" 

A  group  of  figures  gathered  round  him  and  one  touched  him 
on  the  shoulder. 

"Wheer's  t'  lass?"  said  a  voice  and  Tony  Crow  towered 
before  him. 

"The  lass— what  lass?" 

"Susie  Sutcliffe — the  lass  ye  stole  from  her  home  wi'  lies 
an'  blather." 

Saunderson  measured  the  group  about  him  and  answered 
without  pause. 

"The  lass  is  not  here;   she's  gone." 

"Gone  wheer?" 

"Home." 

"Look,  ma  sons,"  the  blacksmith  ordered;  "see  if  he  lies." 
Then  as  two  moved  away  to  obey  he  turned  banteringly  on  the 
skipper. 

"Cap'n  Saundisson!"  he  said,  "ah'm  praad  t'  greet  ye. 
Ah've  bin  lookin'  for  ye  ta  keep  yon  promise  o'  yourn." 

Saunderson  moved  with  an  oath,  but  the  men  pressed  in 
upon  him  and  he  was  powerless.  He  knew  now  what  had 
happened.  These  men,  whereof  Tony  Crow  was  the  spokes- 
man, had  tracked  him  down  and  meant  to  take  him.  He 
acknowledged  that  he  was  hemmed  in,  beaten;  but  with  the 
advent  of  opposition  his  brain  regained  power.  He  took  grip 
of  the  situation,  searching  for  means  of  escape;  but  the  burly 
blacksmith  pressed  in  upon  him,  pinning  him  down  to  answer. 


A  CHALLENGE  383 

"Ah'm  waitin',  "  he  cried,  "Ah'm  no  fu'  ta  the  heilt  wi' 
patience.  Will  ye  fetcht?  Or  am  I  ta  hit  ye  cowardly?" 

"I'll  fight  you  when  an'  where  you  like." 

"Right;    then  we'll  get  ashore  wi  oot  any  more  clack." 

"Ashore?" 

"Aye;   on  the  sands  yonder." 

Saunderson  turned  and  stared  across  the  misty  strip  of 
intervening  sea.  A  notion  came  to  him.  The  sands  were 
nearer  the  shore  by  a  mile  than  where  they  lay.  If  he  could 
reach  them  might  he  not  also  reach  the  farther  stretch — the 
Maplins,  beyond  which  were  the  Essex  marches,  the  Crouch, 
Burnham,  Maiden  and  a  score  of  places  abounding  with  river 
craft  and  means  of  exit.  Would  he  land  on  the  sands  yonder 
and  fight?  Aye,  would  he.  He  gave  the  answer  with  a  rush 
of  passion  and  instantly  the  men  moved  for  the  boat. 

He  climbed  into  the  stern  sheets  with  Micky  Doolan,  Tony 
Crow,  and  two  others.  They  started  for  the  Mouse. 

And  as  they  moved  shoreward  another  boat,  which  had  left 
the  Stormy  Petrel  while  they  talked,  came  to  the  sands  and 
landed  her  burden. 

But  Saunderson  knew  nothing  of  this.  He  sat  there  staring 
into  the  sheen — the  sheen  which  hung  wavering  over  the  sands, 
and  beyond 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE  ISSUE 

A  LONELY  stretch  of  unclaimed  terrain,  perhaps  a  mile 
in  length  and  nearly  as  broad,  lay  in  the  eye  of  the 
moon  where  they  landed.  The  swell  rolled  up  to  meet  it 
and  died  in  a  splutter  of  thickened  foam  far  up  the  slope. 
Little  terraces  of  ridged  sand  marked  the  efforts  of  the  waves, 
but  beyond  the  line  of  refuse  the  bank  was  smooth  and  curved 
as  a  turtle's  back. 

In  the  near  distance  a  light  revolved.  Thrice  each  minute 
it  grew  bright  and  as  often  waned — the  pale,  green  glare  of  the 
Mouse  shining  through  the  mistiness.  It  lighted  the  sands  with 
recurrent  flashes  and  threw  unstable  shadows  of  the  group 
struggling  to  beach  their  boat.  Farther  afield  a  second  signal 
winked  in  solemn  loneliness  marking  the  presence  of  the  Oaze. 
Between  it  and  the  sands  it  guarded,  half  curtained  in  the  fitful 
light,  lay  the  two  vessels,  the  Red  Gauntlet  and  the  tug;  and  in 
the  farther  channel,  moored  at  the  edge  of  the  Swin  was  a 
wherry.  About  them  all  the  gulls  swerved  and  fought  for 
food  uncovered  by  the  ebb. 

Saunderson  stood  alone.  It  seemed  at  that  moment  that 
chance  opened  a  door  for  him.  The  men  were  busy  with  the 
boat — unaccountably  slow  in  their  movements;  he  examined 
the  distance  and  found  it  a  solitude.  Before  him  lay  that  means 
of  exit  of  which  he  had  dreamed;  a  means  by  which  even  now 
he  might  evade  the  issue.  His  pulses  stirred.  He  moved 
stealthily  up  the  slope.  The  voices  of  the  men  waned.  Tony 

384 


THE  ISSUE  385 

Crow  stooped,  apparently  deep  in  the  measurements  of  the 
Queensberry  ring  and  Saunderson  passed  unheeding.  He 
laughed  in  his  sleeve  as  he  noted  their  dilatory  movements. 
Perhaps  Tony  Crow,  after  all,  was  not  aching  for  that  fight 
he  had  challenged.  Chks!  the  men  were  behind  him.  He 
leaped  forward  at  a  run. 

The  tricky  light  favoured  him  and  for  a  while  no  sound 
broke  the  stillness  beyond  the  dull  thud  of  his  heavy  passage. 
Then  a  cry  rang  out,  sharp,  tense,  and  instantly  he  redoubled 
his  efforts. 

The  men  were  gathering  in  pursuit.  He  knew  this  without 
pausing  to  see.  They  were  hurrying  fast  in  his  tracks  but  the 
advantage  lay  now  with  him.  Already  he  had  come  well  in 
view  of  the  farther  channel,  and  there,  as  though  arranged  by 
Providence  to  succour  him,  lay  a  wherry,  quiescent  at  the  edge 
of  the  sands.  Only  a  narrow  strip  of  water  intervened.  He 
could  wade  it  on  his  head.  Who  could  have  left  a  boat  in 
such  a  position?  He  laughed  aloud.  The  question  tickled 
him;  but  it  was  one  he  could  leave  for  those  others  to  solve. 
The  boat  was  there  and  he  would  use  her. 

He  came  down  the  slope  panting  and  at  speed.  In  two 
minutes  he  would  be  in  the  water,  in  two  more  he  would  be  on 
board.  He  shouted  his  triumph — then  suddenly,  swiftly  drew 
rein. 

Three  forms  rose  from  the  dark  line  marking  the  edge  of 
high  water  and  stood  to  hold  him. 

"Stand  in  the  King's  name!" 

The  voice  rang  harshly  in  that  dreary  solitude.  The  men 
advanced;  but  Saunderson  had  already  turned  and  was  moving 
heavily  back  in  his  tracks.  His  jocularity  died.  He  knew 
now  why  he  had  been  permitted  to  land,  why  the  men  had 
remained  so  long  fiddling  with  the  boat;  knew  and  cursed  the 


386  THE  ISSUE 

strategy  which  had  drawn  him  on;  but  still  he  kept  his  head 
and  ran  as  he  had  not  run  since  he  was  a  boy.  A  mad  rage 
took  possession  of  him.  Somehow  he  would  escape.  No  man 
should  take  him.  Least  of  all  would  he  surrender.  If  he 
must  die  he  would  die  fighting — fighting  as  a  man. 

He  came  to  the  top  of  the  sands  and  looked  about  him.  The 
men  were  no  longer  visible.  He  stumbled  upon  a  hollow  and 
instantly  crouched  low  to  garner  his  forces.  His  breath  failed 
him;  the  sweat  poured  down  his  face;  his  knees  trembled 
from  his  unaccustomed  effort.  He  lay  with  his  chin  on  his 
arms,  panting,  watching,  and  in  silence. 

And  as  he  rested,  twisting  in  his  mind  the  small  and  in- 
considerable details  of  his  flight,  the  crunch  of  sand  arrested 
his  attention  and  he  lifted  his  head. 

A  man  came  slowly  down  the  bank  before  him.  He  was 
alone.  Saunderson  cowered  still  deeper  in  the  shadow.  The 
footsteps  approached.  He  saw  that  of  necessity  he  must  be 
discovered  and  rose  at  once  to  meet  who  came.  He  had  re- 
gained his  breath.  Some  one  barred  his  passage.  He  stood 
measuring  the  distance,  balanced,  ready  to  spring;  but  the 
man  halted  and  a  voice  fell  upon  the  pause. 

"What  ho!  Win'bag  Saunderson  as  I'm  a  living  soul. 
Stand  out,  man!  stand  out!" 

It  was  Elliott  who  paused  there  in  the  sheeny  light  to  mock 
him;  Elliott  who  was  winning  again  as  he  always  won;  Elliott 
who  had  returned  to  give  him  into  the  hands  of  his  enemies. 
The  knowledge  stung  him.  Elliott!  The  man  preferred  by 
the  girl;  the  man  of  men  he  hated.  The  strength  of  his  en- 
mity outweighed  his  discretion.  He  sprang  forward  with  a  snarl. 

"Aye,"  he  shouted,  "Win'bag  Saunderson,  game  to  fight 
you  as  he's  always  fought  you — face  to  face,  man  to  man ;  but 
now  for  that  boat  instead  of  the — Flames!  d'ye  take  on  ?" 


THE  ISSUE  387 

Elliott  took  off  his  coat  and  tossed  it  aside. 

"Take  on?"  he  cried.  "God!  that's  what  I'm  here  for.  It's 
what  I've  lived  for.  It's  what  you  are  here  for.  Boat?  Aye, 
if  you  can  beat  me,  Win'bag,  you  shall  have  the  boat.  If  I 
beat  you  I'll  come  and  see  you  swing.  You've  fought  me  fair, 
have  you?  God's  truth — stand  out  and  begin  what's  never 
been  your  game.  Stand  out!" 

The  two  men  rapidly  stripped  to  the  waist.  They  stood 
now  barebacked  and  without  shoes,  marking  their  distance  on 
the  soft  sand.  And  the  swinging  glare  from  the  Mouse  fell 
upon  them,  painting  them  green. 

A  faint  cry  came  over  the  sea  and  Elliott  half  turned  to 
listen.  Saunderson  saw  his  advantage  and  instantly  leaped 
upon  him.  "Lie  down,  dawg!"  he  growled  and  struck  him 
heavily.  Elliott  swayed,  but  kept  his  feet  and  dodging  the 
savage  skipper  hooked  with  his  left  as  he  passed,  and  Saunder- 
son measured  his  length  on  the  sand. 

"Get  up!  Fight  fair,"  Elliott  shouted,  sparring  back  with 
the  calmness  born  of  practised  combat.  "Fight  fair!"  he 
reiterated  as  the  other  lurched  to  his  feet.  Then  again  as  his 
opponent  rushed  in  he  stepped  aside  and  struck  him  to  his 
knees. 

Saunderson  rose  more  slowly  now.  He  stood  to  draw  his 
enemy  on,  and  for  a  moment,  the  recollection  of  a  former  en- 
counter crossed  his  mind.  Then  Elliott  had  beaten  him.  Now 
if  he  were  beaten  again  the  end  was  at  hand.  He  stepped 
backward,  his  fists  raised,  working  in  a  circle  to  tempt  this  man 
to  close.  But  Elliott  had  no  intention  of  closing;  he  knew 
precisely  what  risks  he  incurred  and  danced  lightly  in  Saunder- 
son's  track,  keeping  him  always  at  arm's  length. 

A  short  interval  at  these  tactics  told  Saunderson  the  younger 
man  must  win,  unless  he  could  reach  in  and  stop  him.  He 


388  THE  ISSUE 

moved  circumspectly — waiting.  A  cloud  drew  across  the 
moon;  the  light  behind  became  dim.  It  was  an  opportunity 
the  skipper  could  scarcely  miss.  He  instantly  checked  his  pace 
and  darted  under  his  opponent's  guard.  Two  heavy  blows 
reached  Elliott;  but  again  he  sprang  away  and  cut  the  skipper 
smartly  over  the  eyes.  Twice  he  struck  before  the  man  could 
recover,  then  with  a  sudden  swing  reached  his  temple  and  again 
Saunderson  measured  the  sands. 

The  moon  peeped  out  touching  the  scene  with  a  passing  gleam. 
From  the  edge  of  the  tide  came  the  monotonous  cry  of  the 
gulls  sweeping  the  ebbing  channels  for  scraps.  From  the 
nebulous  haze  the  winking  light  of  the  Oaze  mocked  at  the 
efforts  of  this  man  who  would  recognise  nothing,  who  could 
learn  nothing  that  would  upset  the  theories  in  which  he  was 
steeped — and  yet  must  be  taught.  A  moment  the  moon  stood 
over  them  deepening  the  shadows,  then  the  scud  swept  up  and 
its  face  was  dim. 

Saunderson  still  lay  prone  upon  his  back.  He  raged  at  his 
ineptitude  yet  failed  to  comprehend  the  reason  of  it.  He 
breathed  more  heavily  now  and  noted  the  fact  that  Elliott 
stood  there,  cool  and  scarcely  marked,  to  watch  him,  and  he 
turned  laboriously  on  his  elbow. 

"The  boat's  still  there,  Win'bag!"  came  the  phrase  aimed 
to  taunt  him.  "What  d'you  say?  Getting  tired?" 

"Tired!" 

Saunderson  lurched  to  his  feet.  He  was  bleeding  profusely 
and  trembling  from  those  efforts  of  his  which  had  failed. 

"Tired?"  he  reiterated,  "Lumme!  no;  not  while  I  can  see. 
Stand  out!" 

"Right." 

Elliott  advanced  without  flurry.  He  was  as  calm  and  unflus- 
tcred  as  his  enemy  was  distressed.  They  faced  each  other 


THE  ISSUE  389 

again,  the  younger  man  sparring  back,  the  elder  rushing  wildly 
in  chase. 

A  blow  fell  on  Saunderson's  breast.  He  drew  a  long,  sob- 
bing breath  and  leaped  forward  swearing.  Then  Elliott 
tripped  and  instantly  his  foe  was  upon  him  delivering  his  stock 
of  blows.  They  fell  swiftly  and  for  a  moment  it  appeared  that 
Elliott  would  be  gripped;  but  again,  with  marvellous  dex- 
terity, he  evaded  the  big  man's  clutches  and  springing  aside 
delivered  that  deadly  upper  cut  which  so  distressed  his  heavy 
opponent.  Saunderson's  advantage  disappeared.  He  bent 
a  moment  to  regain  breath  and  Elliott  stood  to  greet  him. 

They  faced  each  other  in  dogged  anger.  Thuds  fell  which 
seemed  to  shake  the  stillness  as  the  scud  up  there  seemed  to 
shake  the  moon.  A  moment  the  river  was  gleaming  in  its 
lustre;  again  it  ran  solemn  and  swift  in  the  grayness.  The 
noise  of  laboured  breath  and  vicious  oaths  filled  the  night  with 
jets  of  sound.  A  procession  of  leaping  and  half -naked  figures 
mocked  these  two  grim  fighters  from  the  sands.  The  men  closed. 
They  stood  at  grip — Elliott  quiet  and  firmly  planted,  Saunder- 
son  wrecking  his  strength  in  futile  bluster,  swaying,  panting. 
A  minute  they  remained  thus,  poised  against  the  skyline,  then 
one  moved  from  his  feet,  rose  high  in  air,  and  fell  with  a  thud — 
a  sickening  sound,  heavy,  squelching,  nerveless. 

A  brief  gleam  stole  through  the  cloud  rack  and  lighted  the 
scene.  Elliott  halted  there,  panting  from  his  exertions;  but 
he  stood.  Saunderson  lay  breathless  at  his  feet. 

Five  minutes  he  remained  as  though  stunned;  then,  dizzily 
and  with  infinite  stealth,  he  edged  toward  his  enemy's  leg. 
But  Elliott  saw  him  and  leaped  back. 

"Get  up,  man.  Fight  fair!"  he  shouted,  and  the  gulls 
swerved  high  about  them,  screaming  over  the  discoveries  by 
which  they  lived.  Saunderson  maintained  silence. 


390  THE  ISSUE 

"The  boat's  mine,  Win'bag;  another  minute  and  the  chaps 
will  he  here.  Are  you  game?" 

The  taunt  sufficed.  Saunderson  reached  his  feet.  He 
reeled  where  he  stood,  but  shouted  as  he  had  always  shouted: 
"Come  on!  I'm  wiv  you.  Gawd's  love!  I'm  wiv  you  to  the 
end." 

Neither  man  sparred  now.  Each  faced  his  foe  and  strove 
by  sheer  weight  of  muscle  to  crush  him.  But  Saunderson's 
sense  of  aim  was  gone.  He  pummelled  the  air.  His  blows 
fell  on  space  and  with  each  lunge  Elliott  dodged  and  cut  him 
under  the  guard.  The  Skipper  was  vanquished,  he  was  breath- 
less, he  ached  in  every  limb,  he  was  blind.  His  age,  his  habits, 
his  weight,  all  made  him  an  easy  prey  for  this  force  which  had 
returned  to  destroy  him;  yet  still  he  contended,  foot  to  foot, 
eye  to  eye,  striving  with  the  dumb  patience  of  the  brutes  to 
fence  the  shower  that  rained  upon  him. 

Then,  suddenly,  Elliott  closed  and  once  more  gripped  his 
man  by  the  middle.  A  yell  of  anger  left  Saunderson's  lips  as 
he  moved  from  the  ground:  "Gawd!  Not  that — not  that!" 

Quicker  this  time,  more  swiftly  through  the  darkness,  and 
again  he  lay  prone. 

He  remained  where  he  fell  and  for  an  hour  the  swinging 
glare  from  the  lightship  stole  over  the  pah-,  painting  them 
green. 

•  ••••••• 

An  hour,  then  once  again  the  boats  crept  over  the  face  of  the 
waters  carrying  a  man  sunk  in  that  lethargy  against  which  he 
was  unable  to  fight. 


CHAPTER  IX 
THE  Two  WHO  SOWED 

SAUNDERSON  lay  on  the  settee  within  the  small  cabin 
which  was  his  home. 

The  police  who  remained  on  board  imagined  that  he 
slept,  but  he  did  not  sleep;  he  was  aware  of  his  bonds  and 
with  a  subtlety  that  had  newly  come  to  him,  sought  how  even 
at  this  hour  he  might  regain  his  freedom. 

For  some  time  he  lay  there  considering  this  matter.  There 
were  men  on  deck.  He  could  hear  them  walking  to  and  fro — 
six  steps  this  way,  six  that.  The  monotony  of  it  annoyed  him. 
He  desired  at  that  moment  to  silence  them,  yet  remained 
quiescent  until  the  rattle  of  a  chain  told  him  some  vessel  had 
come  to  anchor  close  at  hand.  It  now  occurred  to  him  that  he 
should  go  on  deck  and  see  whether  they  had  left  him  a  clear 
berth.  It  was  his  prerogative,  yet  still  he  remained  there 
couched,  ruminating,  twiddling  with  the  handcuffs  with  which 
he  was  bound. 

He  strove  to  draw  them  from  his  wrists,  covertly,  under 
shelter  of  the  table;  and  again  rested.  He  acknowledged 
after  a  while  that  a  belaying  pin  or  the  windlass  lever  was  nec- 
essary to  enable  him  to  accomplish  his  desire — and  to  reach 
either  he  must  gain  the  deck.  But  while  those  men  walked  it 
was  impossible —  that  he  acknowledged,  shaking  his  head, 
hugely  alert.  Then,  suddenly  as  it  appeared,  the  tramping 
ceased.  Voices  rose  up  there  in  the  darkness;  men  called  one 
to  the  other  from  a  distance.  "What  vessel  is  that?  Where 


392  THE  ISSUE 

are  you  bound?  Got  a  drink  on  board?"  Answers  came 
back,  muffled,  perplexing — Saunderson  could  not  define  the 
answers. 

He  heard  the  men  approach  the  skylight  and  recognised  that 
they  looked  down  upon  him.  He  knew  that  one  hauled  a  boat 
alongside.  He  knew  too  that  one  or  more  presently  crossed 
the  deck,  opened  the  scuttle  and  descended.  He  discovered 
that  a  bullseye  shone  across  the  cabin,  that  someone  flashed 
it  close  in  his  face;  but  he  remained  undisturbed,  silent.  A 
dead  man  would  have  given  no  greater  sign  than  did  Saunderson. 

A  pause  ensued.  One  whispered  to  the  other.  A  voice 
said:  "Oh,  he's  breathing  right  enough,"  the  ghost  of  a  voice; 
but  Saunderson  heard  and  understood.  Then  followed  the 
movement  of  men  crossing  the  cabin,  ascending  the  stairs, 
shutting  and  locking  the  scuttle;  again,  after  a  minute,  the 
noise  of  shipped  oars,  of  rowing,  and  Saunderson  sat  erect. 

The  men  were  gone.  All  of  them?  He  questioned  this 
madness  and  set  about  discovering  the  answer.  He  mounted 
the  small  table,  lifted  the  skylight,  and  peered  out.  The  decks 
seemed  empty.  Across  the  river  he  caught  sight  of  the  boat 
moving  toward  an  anchored  barge. 

Chks!  Did  they  suppose  he  was  dead?  Did  they  imagine 

the  mauling  he  had  received  was  sufficient  to Chks!  with 

hands  made  clumsy  by  the  manacles,  he  unscrewed  the  sky- 
light and,  pushing  it  free  of  the  clamp,  let  it  fall  backward  upon 
its  twin. 

Now  at  length  it  was  possible  to  move  farther. 

A  box  placed  on  the  table  gave  him  further  easement.  He 
clambered  out  and  wriggled  snakewise  along  the  deck;  then, 
standing  in  the  shadow  cast  by  the  mast,  examined  the  outlook. 

The  decks  held  no  one.  The  small  forecastle  was  empty—' 
a  light  burning  in  it  beside  the  stove.  Saunderson  moved  more 


THE  TWO  WHO  SOWED  393 

freely.  He  approached  the  windlass  lever  and  raising  his 
hands  brought  the  swivel  crashing  on  the  iron — once,  twice, 
thrice,  and  with  a  wrench  he  was  free.  He  babbled  of  the  fact 
as  he  moved  to  further  effort.  A  glance  told  him  that  if  he 
hove  in  cable  as  men  usually  heave  it,  the  noise  would  bring 
those  men  back  in  ten  minutes.  He  leaned  over  the  pall  rack 
considering  this  and  presently,  with  the  help  of  a  few  rope 
yarns,  had  the  things  fast,  silent  as  the  night. 

Again  he  babbled  like  a  child  of  his  strategy  and  swiftly 
wound  up  the  anchor.  So,  he  no  longer  lay  still.  The  tide 
carried  him  outward,  farther  each  moment  from  that  vessel 
lying  there  with  his  captors  on  board. 

He  glanced  up  river  and  found  that  the  barge  was  sunk  in 
the  haze.  Already?  He  leaped  responsive,  chattering  still 
of  the  idiocy  of  those  thirsty  souls  who  had  captured  him  and 
given  him  his  freedom.  The  light  air  helped  him  when  pres- 
ently he  had  made  sail.  He  leaned  there  by  the  wheel,  grimly 
fingering  the  spokes. 

The  Red  Gauntlet  sagged  down  river  like  a  wraith,  carrying 
this  man  to  the  harvest. 


The  turgid  night  oppressed  him.  In  face  of  that  mist  and 
streaming  scud;  within  sound  of  those  rolling  breakers  dis- 
olving  in  spume  at  the  edge  of  the  sands,  he  could  not  think. 
He  desired  thought.  In  that  fashion  alone  was  it  possible  to 
arrange  those  matters  which  cried  so  clamorously  for  decision. 
The  barge  drove  in  the  fairway,  there  were  no  other  vessels 
about.  He  told  himself  she  would  take  no  harm  and  crept  into 
the  cabin  seeking  the  silence  which  had  become  imperative — 
if  decision  were  to  be  come  at.  But  here  the  lamp  burned  low 
with  a  gurgling  noise  in  its  throat  that  sounded  like  a  laugh, 


394  THE  ISSUE 

a  hideous,  still-born  laugh — dead  at  its  birth.  Saunderson 
examined  the  thing  with  eyes  which  denoted  his  extremity  and 
announced  that  it  cried  out  for  oil.  He  essayed  to  trim  it, 
unsteadily,  with  shaking  hands — like  a  man  in  a  palsy.  He 
found  a  can  of  paraffin,  unscrewed  the  lamp,  filled  it,  lighted 
it  and  left  the  drum  where  it  stood,  on  the  edge  of  the  table.  It 
held  five  gallons. 

Now,  at  length,  it  appeared  that  he  had  compelled  a  silence 
which  was  absolute.  He  crossed  the  deck  and  sitting  before 
the  stove  asked"  himself  what  next  he  must  do. 

But  now  the  silence  troubled  him.  It  marked  his  loneliness. 
It  pointed  to  the  inevitable  approach  of  that  fate  which  dogged 
him  and  for  which  he  was  unprepared.  He  leaned  forward, 
staring  into  the  fire  and  struggling  to  shut  out  the  teeming 
fancies.  Something  he  had  decided  to  do.  What  was  it? 
The  idea  evaded  him.  It  passed  from  his  brain,  leaving  a 
curious  sense  of  aloofness  which  in  itself  was  sufficient  to  cause 
him  unrest.  What  was  wrong  ?  Why  could  he  not  decide  ? 

He  glanced  up — the  swift,  scared  look  of  one  who  sees  shad- 
ows where  no  shadows  exist. 

The  visions  of  the  night  were  upon  him,  his  brain  clogged 
with  ideas,  tag-ends  of  sentences,  conversations — all  in  frag- 
ments, broken  up  and  mixed  like  the  debris  shovelled  into  a 
destructor. 

He  searched  about  for  means  by  which  he  might  piece  these 
things  together,  and  in  the  midst  of  a  silence  like  the  silence  of 
death  a  persistent  noise  assailed  his  ears. 

He  lifted  his  face  to  gaze  furtively  over  his  shoulder  and  the 
mate's  dog,  who  had  approached  to  search  the  fender  for 
scraps,  fled  up  the  steps  at  sight  of  the  man's  awakening. 

Saunderson  leaned  forward.  "It's  the  dawg,"  he  said. 
Then  again;  "Spuds!  here  boy — come  here."  But  the  animal, 


THE  TWO  WHO  SOWED  395 

dreading  a  kick,  only  ran  the  faster,  whining  with  fright. 
Saunderson  groaned.  The  dog  had  turned  from  him  now, 
when  in  his  mental  agony  even  the  companionship  of  a  brute 
would  have  been  welcome  to  aid  him  in  blotting  out  the  past. 

He  drew  his  hands  across  his  bruised  and  swollen  face  and 
instantly  the  fanciful  procession  commenced  anew. 

Thought  maddened  him.  He  could  not  discover  the  end. 
It  approached,  playing  with  him  as  a  cat  plays  with  the  bird  it 
has  maimed.  How  would  it  take  him?  When  would  it  take 
him?  He  muttered  hoarsely:  "I'm  not  fit.  Gawd!  I'm  not 
fit.  My  hand  was  forced.  Men  starvin ' ;  women  in  the  gutter. 
Masters  suckin'  their  blood —  fillin'  their  purses  wiv  gold  stolen 
from  the  sweat  of  men — stolen  by  competition,  stolen  by  quibble 
— stolen  by  devilry.  How  could  I  help  it?  I  couldn't  help 
it.  Lies!  I  say  I  couldn't " 

He  glanced  over  his  shoulder  and  sprang  to  his  feet,  crying 
out :  "  Who  spoke  ?  Who's  there  ?  Who  says  I  did  it  for  self  ? 
Lies!  No  one  spoke.  Nothin's  there.  Shadows  an'  dark- 
ness— darkness  an'  shadows  an'  lies." 

He  returned  to  his  seat  and  sat  there  glaring  uneasily  into 
space,  then  crept  to  the  locker  and  discovered  his  medicine. 
It  seemed  at  that  moment  that  he  had  nearly  forgotten  it;  but 
now  he  took  it  and,  stealing  cautiously  backward,  climbed 
the  steps  and  reached  the  deck. 

The  Red  Gauntlet  still  lay  there,  sagging  broadside  with  the 
tide,  silent  as  though  a  plague  had  struck  her  and  left  her 
peopled  by  the  ghosts  of  her  crew.  Saunderson  stood  watching, 
facing  sands  where  the  swell  rolled  a  misty  foam-cloud  into 
the  night.  It  hung  wavering  in  the  tricky  moonlight,  singing 
the  requiem  of  the  sea,  red  with  the  shade  of  the  Maplin,  white 
under  the  eye  of  the  moon.  He  stared  into  the  sheen  and  his 
wife's  words  rang  in  his  brain: 


396  THE  ISSUE 

"On  the  river  when  it  is  dark,  I  will  be  with  you.  In  your 
sleep  I  shall  be  at  your  side,  flitting  unseen.  In  lonely  roads  or 
silent  anchorages  I  shall  be  near  you,  driving  you  to  that  hell 
you  are  always  talking  of." 

The  memory  struck  him  with  a  frenzy  and  he  leaped  from 
the  hatches  to  search  for  a  boat.  A  boat  should  be  fast  astern 
— the  one  boat  the  Red  Gauntlet  carried.  He  would  use  her 
and  row  away  from  this  place  which  was  accursed. 

He  came  aft  and  stood  in  search;  but  no  boat  was  there,  for 
the  mate  by  some  chance  had  not  returned.  He  acknowledged 
the  fact,  admitting  that  it  cut  him  off  from  escape.  Alone, 
deserted  alike  by  God  and  man,  he  was  left  to  meet  that  end 
of  which  he  had  dreamed  and  could  not  fathom.  A  moment 
he  stood  examining  the  shadows,  shouting  his  fears  into  the 
void,  questioning  why  he  was  debarred  this  one  chance  of 
escape? 

But  the  river  had  no  answer  to  give.  It  ran  past  him,  gurgl- 
ing and  carrying  on  its  bosom  the  garbage  of  a  great  town;  it 
swept  seaward,  down  the  channels,  across  the  sands,  out  to- 
wards the  profound  and  restless  sea. 

Again  Saunderson  left  the  deck  and  crept  into  his  small 
cabin.  He  slammed  the  scuttle  upon  his  solitude  and  sat  down 
nursing  his  medicine. 


And  suddenly,  despite  the  fact  that  an  hour  had  elapsed, 
a  noise  awoke  the  brooding  man.  The  sea  had  grown  strangely 
still,  the  swell  no  longer  troubled  him  and  the  noise  continued — 
a  sliding,  grinding  scrape,  as  of  a  boat  drawn  down  a  shingly 
beach. 

Saunderson  no  longer  dozed  over  the  fire.  He  reached  the 
deck  shouting  his  fears:  "What  now?  What  now?"  Ah,  he. 


THE  TWO  WHO  SOWED  397 

might  have  known  it.  He  had  reached  the  tail  of  the  sands, 
the  sands  of  which  he  had  been  dreaming. 

The  Red  Gauntlet  no  longer  sagged  in  the  midst  of  the  channel ; 
she  lay  quivering  and  full  of  strange  thrills,  edging  her  way 
like  a  bird  in  a  bath  of  dust,  preparing  for  rest. 

Saunderson  moved  about  the  deck  as  a  man  distraught. 
Forward,  aft,  amidships,  he  laboured  with  a  pole,  seeking  to 
force  his  way  into  deeper  water.  He  hauled  the  sheets  to  wind- 
ward and  stood  watching.  The  sails  flapped  dismally,  the 
barge  rolled;  but  no  wind  stirred,  and  overhead  the  scud 
raced. 

It  was  a  travesty  of  all  expected  things.  He  shouted  his 
contempt,  his  challenge,  his  unspeakable  disdain;  then,  tired 
by  the  violence  of  his  passion,  crept  into  the  cabin  and  closed 
the  scuttle.  Again  he  drank  of  his  medicine.  He  was  weary — 
very  weary.  He  averred  as  he  sat  watching  before  the  stove 
that  never  before  had  he  been  so  weary.  His  eyes  closed.  For 
a  while  the  man  slept. 


A  sound  awakened  him  and  he  leaned  back  against  the 
lockers. 

The  lamp  swinging  up  there  in  the  skylight  as  the  barge 
rolled,  cast  shadows  on  the  white  wood  deck.  The  table,  the 
stove,  a  pendant  oilskin,  all  swaying  slowly,  threw  their  images 
across  him  and  crawled  about  as  though  imbued  with  life. 

Saunderson  sat  watching,  his  eyes  drawn,  his  muscles  twitch- 
ing. Each  shadow  was  a  living  soul.  Each  tricky  phantasy  of 
light  some  companion  he  had  known.  He  leaped  up  with  a 
shout  of  fear.  Great  drops  of  sweat  stood  on  his  forehead. 
"Take  'em  away!"  he  cried  out.  "Gawd!  take  'em  away." 

But  the  motley  array  of  haggard  men  and  women  streamed 


398  THE  ISSUE 

past  and  stood  drawn  up  in  line  to  mock  him.  Saunderson 
recognised  this  and  crept  backward  to  bestow  himself,  huddled 
and  mouthing,  beside  the  cabin  table.  It  seemed  necessary  that 
he  leave  them  room  to  move. 

"They're  come,"  he  announced  with  thin  lips,  "they're  come 
to  see  me  finish.  Shhh!  How  many  of 'em  ?"  He  paused  to 

count:  "One,  two,  three,  four,  five" but  the  number 

stretched  indefinitely  and  Saunderson  drew  back  with  a 
leer.  "We'll  call  it  five,"  he  said,  "five,  all  gibberin'  like 
fools. 

"Stand  back!  Stand  back!  Shhh!  There's  Lucy,  an' 
there's  Jo — Polly  her  name  was.  Mary,  you  slut!  I  never 
chucked  you — 'twere  your  fault.  Jenny,  you  there?  Smilin' 
still — waitin' to  see  me  swing ?  Stay!  I'm  not  goin' to  swing. 
It's  the  Gat — the  curse.  Whish!  stand  back!  Jenny,  come 
here,  come  here,  for  Gawd's  sake  an'  talk  to  me.  Won't  ? 
I  might  have  known  it.  Shhh!  they're  asleep;  they'd  best  stay 
asleep  forever." 

He  crawled  to  the  table,  avoiding  the  moving  shadows  and 
with  a  madman's  stealthy  movement  obtained  the  can  of 
paraffin. 

He  withdrew  the  cork,  searched  for  a  knife,  and  set  himself 
to  chew  the  stopper  smaller.  This  done  he  again  fitted  it  to 
the  mouth  of  the  can,  tipped  it  and  secured  it  on  the  table. 
When  tilted  with  an  eye  to  effect  a  slow  stream  dribbled  to  the 
deck.  Saunderson  remarked  it  and  drew  back  gibbering  and 
pointing  and  begging  for  silence. 

"They're  all  asleep,"  he  whispered;  "no  one  can  wake  'em 
now.  Lucy's  lyin'  down — cawn't  keep  her  head  up.  Mary! 
you  slut,  sit  down.  Hush!  d'ye  mind  what  ye  did  wiv  your 
babby?  Laid  on  it.  I  say  you  did!  No  more  squawkin' — 
I  say  you  did.  Stand  back,  you  shiverin'  fool!" 


THE  TWO  WHO  SOWED  399 

He  drew  away  from  the  shadow  again  and  watched  the 
dripping  oil.  As  the  barge  ambled  under  the  influence  of  the 
flood,  so  the  paraffin  ran  over  the  table  edge  on  either  side  the 
stove.  It  stole  across  the  cabin  deck  in  growing  rivulets.  It 
trickled  now  this  way,  now  that,  until  it  had  saturated  not  only 
the  deck  but  the  man,  sitting  there  and  counting  his  silent 
guests. 

But  Saunderson  heeded  nothing  of  this.  He  saw  his  puppets 
slowly  stained  and  sodden  and  pushed  the  oil  across  to  where 
he  saw  them  sleeping. 

"Shhh!"  he  mouthed.  "Lilly,  you'll  never  look  me  in  the 
face  again  wiv  them  red  eyes.  You're  goin'  on  a  long  journey 
my  gell.  You  told  me  that  before;  but  now  you're  back  an' 
who's  that  you've  got  beside  you?  Snuffles!  What's  that 
you're  tellin'  him?  Get  your  eyes  off  him.  Yaas,  I  own  up. 
I  done  it.  You'll  shake  your  finger  at  me,  will  you?  Slut! 
I  say  you're  goin'  on  a  long  journey  again.  Maybe  you'll 
never  come  back — you  nor,  him — nor " 

He  clambered  to  the  stove  and  pushed  a  piece  of  paper 
through  the  bars.  "I've got  a  way  to  finish  you  off!"  he 
hissed,  his  voice  leaping.  "You  an'  him  an'  all  the  crew. 
Go  down  to  hell  an' burn.  Go  down  an' burn.  Gawdl" 

Something  sizzled  in  the  fender.  A  light  crept  out.  It 
danced  like  summer  lightning,  like  the  lightning  he  had  seen 

out  there — where Whirr!  A  blaze  of  fire  encircled  him. 

He  rolled  in  it.  He  could  not  shake  it  off.  He  screamed  and 
lurching  up  the  ladder  reached  the  deck.  The  blanket  roared 
about  him.  Flames  crackled  in  his  hair.  He  leaped  out  to 
stifle  them. 

A  sudden  plunge;  a  hiss  of  steam;  a  voice  in  the  darkness — 
and  silence.  The  silence  of  the  wide  estuary  beset  with  moving 
ships;  the  silence  of  the  cold  and  pitiless  moon  shrouded  in 


400  THE  ISSUE 

fleecy  cloudlets;  the  silence  of  the  great  unknown  from  whence 
no  sound  has  ever  come  to  warn  us. 

A  breeze  stirred  on  the  face  of  the  waters  and  the  Red  Gaunt- 
let moving  before  it  drove  now  towards  London,  curiously 
lighted. 

Meanwhile  the  Stormy  Petrel  flapped  up  river  under  Elli- 
ott's guidance  seeking  the  boat  wherein  Susie  moved  home- 
ward. 

For  an  hour  they  had  zigzagged  there  in  the  mist,  skirting 
the  Maplins,  and  the  lights  of  Southend  had  grown  bright; 
but  the  boat  remained  unfound.  At  the  pier  where  for  a  while 
they  paused,  they  learned  that  no  one  had  landed  since  nine 
o'clock;  certainly  no  girl  had  come  ashore.  It  seemed  pos- 
sible therefore  that  they  had  passed  the  boat  somewhere  mist- 
hidden,  and  turned  at  once  to  sweep  the  seaward  horizon. 
They  went  slowly  now,  with  frequent  pauses  to  listen,  and  out 
of  the  sheen  came  the  cry  of  the  gulls;  the  note  of  passing 
steamers,  and  the  dulled  bray  of  the  lightships  shouting  their 
warnings. 

Of  wind  there  was  scarcely  a  breath.  A  night  of  turgid 
placidity  reigned,  with  a  mist  which  would  rapidly  develop 
into  fog  with  sunrise.  The  steaming  breath  of  the  marshes 
lay  over  them  and  somewhere  out  there  where  the  mists  seemed 
denser  Susie  sat  in  an  open  boat. 

Elliott  marched  the  bridge,  alert,  keen  to  retrieve;  the  crew 
with  Micky  Doolan  at  the  wheel  had  eyes  for  nothing  but  their 
quest.  Somewhere  between  Southend  and  the  Red  Gauntlet 
the  girl  would  be  found.  Of  that  they  made  no  question.  A 
sailor  given  orders  to  reach  a  certain  place  and  having  to  con- 
tend against  certain  natural  forces  would  move  in  one  way 


THE  TWO  WHO  SOWED  401 

only.  Marley  would  skirt  the  sands.  By  doing  this  he  would 
"cheat  the  tide"  and  save  himself  labour;  that  was  abun- 
dantly certain.  Only  a  fool  moves  against  forces  when  he  may 
harness  them  to  his  service,  and  Marley  was  no  fool. 

Elliott,  Micky  Doolan,  and  all  those  who  were  with  them  had 
no  qualms  on  the  subject.  The  only  hindrance  was  the  mist, 
and  to  give  their  passage  a  trifle  more  definition,  they  made 
music  on  their  horn.  That  at  all  events  was  distinctive  enough 
as  those  know  who  have  writhed  under  the  torture;  but  to 
these  men  horns  speak  a  language.  They  can  say  off  hand: 
"Ah — the  Antwarp  boat"  or  "The  Londoner  at  it  again"  or 
"Hear  the  Storm  Cock  crowin',  matee?" 

And  so  with  the  Stormy  Petrel.  She  carried  an  instrument 
of  doleful  intonation;  a  thing  which  gave  out  a  dirge-like, 
sorrowing  yell  that  no  river  man  having  once  heard  would  ever 
mistake  in  the  future. 

They  played  upon  it  now  in  that  haze  and  fleeting  mist; 
lying  sometimes  idly  to  gather  response,  then  again  moving 
forward,  searching  the  shadows — and  so  at  length  arrived  once 
more  in  the  Warp  and  came  to  a  pause  on  the  measured  mile 
which  lies  off  Shoeburyness.  But  Susie  still  lay  somewhere 
in  that  haze  with  which  they  were  shrouded. 

Anxiety  gripped  them  now.  They  questioned  what  it 
boded.  Was  this  chap  Marley  all  right?  Could  they  trust 
him?  And  the  answers  came  in  vague  contractions;  some 
knew  him  and  decided,  twisting  their  words:  "Marley!  hoyuss; 
'ee's  all  right";  but  halted  at  further  explanation:  "Marley 
was — yass,  there's  no  two  ways  abaat  that — Marley 's  all  right; 
but  he's  bin  doin'  a  bit  o'  South  Spainin'  lately  an' — "  the 
vague  intangibility  droned  on  mouthing  of  the  degeneracy  of 
all  those  who  come  under  foreign  influence. 

Again  they  moved.     The  night  was  perhaps  less  dark.     The 


402  THE  ISSUE 

mist  hanging  over  the  sands  was  whiter,  more  reflective  of  the 
moon  standing  there,  high  in  the  south.  The  song  of  the  surf 
rolled  to  greet  them,  the  dull  drone  of  the  engines  sang  in  their 
ears,  and  out  there  rang  a  sound  which  had  newly  come  into 
being. 

Micky  Doolan  punched  the  gong — one  stroke,  emphasising 
it  with  "Sthop!"  Then  after  a  moment  with  pricked  ears: 
"Whisht!  did  ye  hear  that?" 

"I  hear  the  surf,"  Elliott  admitted.     "Get  her  along." 
"You're  wrong,"  the  skipper  decided;  "ut's  a  fog  horn — a 
hand  trumpet,  my  son,  that's  what  ut  was." 
"Well,  and  what  then?" 

"Then— oh!  as  fer  that,  well,  an'  isnt'  it  loikely  that  Bill 
Marley  has  a  trumpet  wid  him  in  the  boat,  annvways?" 

Elliott  moved  over  at  this  and  the  two  faced  the  sands. 
"  Out  there  ut  wass,"  Micky  explained. 

"Then  that's  it  agin?"    Elliott  suggested  as  a  small  note 
came  down  to  them. 
"Ut  is." 

"Go  for  it,  my  son,  and  give  them  our  horn." 
The  Stormy  Petrel's  cry  moaned  over  the  waters.  It  reached 
the  dim  solitudes  where  the  gulls  and  the  sand  pipers  hold 
revel  and  again  as  they  paused  came  the  new  note,  a  cry  idiotic 
and  supremely  absurd,  like  the  bleat  of  a  sheep  astray  on  the 
marshes.  But  it  sufficed;  because,  to  these  men,  when  you  are 
unable  to  see  the  loom  of  the  bleater,  you  may  assume  that  he 
lies  very  near  the  water  and  that  a  boat  holds  him. 

Elliott  sprang  to  the  gong  and  punched  it  for  full  speed. 
"It's  the  boat,"  he  cried.  "The  boat  as  sure  as  guns.  Get 
her  along!" 

The  skipper  called  down  to  the  engine  room,  headed  still 
farther  over,  then  seized  the  whistle  cord  and  blew  a  long,  weird 


THE  TWO  WHO  SOWED  403 

call.     And  as  they  stood  listening  there  came  the  notes  of    a 
song  ringing  curiously  in  the  stillness: 

"  'If  I  had  a  maid  as  was  so  fair, 

Ho!     U-rio. 
D'ye  ye  think  I'd  leave  her  to  tear  her  hair.' " 

It  was  the  song  of  the  old-time  packets  and  Elliott  recog- 
nised it  at  once.  But  Micky  Doolan  recognised  something 
more;  the  song  was  not  only  the  song  of  the  packet  rats,  but 
it  was  the  song  of  a  chum.  A  snatch  of  a  new  chanty  rolled  in 
their  ears  and  both  men  held  their  breath  to  listen. : 

"  'The  times  are  hard  and  the  wages  low— 

Leave  her,  Johnny,  leave  her; 
The  fo'c'sle's  a  hell  where  the  slime  does  grow — 
Oh!     It's  time  for  us  to  leave  her.' " 

"Hear  that?"  Micky  Doolan  questioned  boisterously* 
"Hear  ut?  Mother  av  God!  ut's  Bill  Marley." 

But  Elliott  only  paced  to  and  fro  the  bridge.  He  spoke  in 
a  small  voice.  "Let  her  away,  let  her  away!"  he  urged. 

The  moonlight  streamed  through  the  scud  as  they  stood 
gazing  up  river,  and  a  small  black  blotch  showed  amidst  the 
flashing  waters.  Both  saw  it.  They  pointed  simultaneously. 
The  dancing,  black  blotch  was  a  boat. 

"Gad,  man!  give  her  wings." 

"Wings  ut  is,  sorr." 

Elliott  turned  away.  He  descended  to  the  main  deck  and 
came  into  the  bows,  asking  himself  whether  Susie  was  there — 
whether  after  all  he  would  win  her — whether  Saunderson  had 
spoken  straight  when  he  said  where  the  girl  was,  or  whether 
this  was  only  a  further  instance  of  the  man's  cunning — the 
thing  which  had  baffled  him  all  these  months. 

The  tug  crashed  onward.  He  noticed  that  the  water  toss- 
ing under  the  forefoot  was  alive  with  tiny  sparks,  green,  blue, 


4o4  THE  ISSUE 

iridescent,  fiery.  A  curious  fact,  too,  that  bowboard  over  which 
he  leaned  used  to  carry  the  name  in  white  letters;  now  they 
were  yellow  and  only  part  of  it  appeared.  Storm — hah! 
symbolic.  He  asked  again  who  was  in  that  boat  and  strove 
to  pierce  the  tantalising  sheen;  but  his  eyes  were  blurred, 
blurred  as  were  his  thoughts.  He  must  wait. 

In  five  minutes  they  had  drawn  so  near  that  a  man's  figure 
came  into  view,  standing  erect,  waving  his  arms.  Why  the 
devil  did  he  play  the  fool  and  risk  Susie's  life?  Cha!  Was 
Susie  there?  Was  anyone  there  beside  that  madman?  The 
words  of  a  song  droned  on  his  ears: 

"  'One  lime  duck,  an'  a  cockey  two — 

Leave  'er,  Johnny,  leave  'er; 
Is  all  that  is  left  of  'er  bloomin'  crew — 
O!  'twer  time  for  us  to  leave  'er.' " 

The  accent  of  Seven  Dials.  "  Odds  take  the  fool,  who  wants 
to  hear  about " 

"The  gell  ain't  there!"  growled  a  fireman  all  sooty  and 
reeking  with  sweat.  "Onlie  Bill's  there.  Hell!" 

He  turned  and  walked  aft,  disconsolate. 

Elliott  searched  the  boat:  "Only  Bill?  Who  was  Bill? 
Two  figures  were  there — two.  His  impatience  grew.  He 
lifted  his  voice  to  shout:  "Who's  there?  In  God's  name, 
who's  there?" 

"Bill  Marley  an'  the  mide.  Stidy  steamboat — dahn't  run 
us  dahn!" 

"Go  easy  Micky!  Port!  Port  a  bit."  Elliott  faced 
ahead.  He  saw  and  cried  out  joyfully:  "Susie!  My  God 
it's  Susie." 

A  voice  came  out  of  the  shimmering  waste,  tremulously 
questioning:  "Is  that  Jack?  Is  it?"  Then  in  more  definite 
tones:  "Is  that  Jack  Elliott?" 


THE  TWO  WHO  SOWED  405 

"Aye,  lad!    Stop  her,  Micky.    Stop  her." 

The  boat  fell  alongside  and  Marley  grabbed  at  the  rope 
which  was  thrown.  "Lumme!"  he  growled,  "if  this  don't 
beat  a  sun-dahner's  breckfust,  tell  me.  A  stroke  astarn,  skip! 
So!  Stop  'er.  Naa  then,  Missy,  give  me  yer  'and.  This 
yer  steambat's  a  disy  fer  jumpin' — an'  'er'  commodation  ladder 
ain't  the  pawler  steps.  Stidy!  Naa  then,  jump's  the  word." 

The  girl  sprang  lightly  up  the  side  as  the  tug  lurched  down 
and  in  a  moment  she  was  in  Jack's  arms: 

"God  love  you,  lass!  God  love  you!"  he  cried,  holding 
her  close. 

"Oh!     Jack,  Jack— my  husband " 

The  group  melted  away.  Some  one  swore  vigorously  in  a  thin 
falsetto.  Micky  Doolan  sprang  at  him  with  an  expressionless 
face.  He  pointed  at  the  forecastle  ladder  and  the  figure  disap- 
peared. Then  the  skipper  ascended  the  bridge  ladder,  examin- 
ing the  rungs  with  keen  interest.  "Be  the  skin  av  their  teeth," 
he  remarked,  "an'  the  luck  av  the  divil.  Arroo!  Mrs. 
Surridge.  Arroo!  Tony  Crow  ye  long  galoote.  Ar " 

A  breeze  stirred  the  face  of  the  waters  and  the  Stormy 
Petrel  moving  with  renewed  freedom  passed  on  toward  Lon- 
don, braying  on  a  horn  that  aped  the  note  and  diction  of  a 
cock  crowing  to  greet  the  rising  sun. 


EPILOGUE 

A  GALE  drove  over  the  cold  North  Sea — the  gale  for 
which  Saunderson  had  prayed. 

For  four  days  it  raged  with  the  hand  of  a  master, 
lashing  the  sands  with  a  switch  that  left  the  air  alive  with 
hisses.  The  sands  laughed.  They  drew  back  their  lips  and 
showed  teeth.  The  power  they  fought  was  afflicted  by  a  mon- 
strous indecision.  Sometimes  if  flowed  across  them,  some- 
times yelped  at  their  feet.  It  gathered  force  out  there  in  the 
grayness  and  swept  down  upon  them  to  blot  them  from  their 
place;  then  died  in  a  splutter  of  foam  and  mist  and  twisting 
eddies.  The  sands  laughed  aloud.  The  Gat  was  knee  deep 
in  feathers  plucked  from  the  breast  of  its  enemy. 

The  lightships  watched,  bending  like  trees  on  a  wind-swept 
plain.  They  called  to  each  other  with  their  flags:  "All  right, 
Black  Deeps?  All  well,  Edinburgh?  Tongue,  Mouse, 
Prince — what  especially  of  the  Tongue,  lurching  farthest 
amidst  the  spume  ?  "  And  the  answer  came  back  through  the 
buffettings,  the  groans,  and  the  turmoil  of  the  sea:  "All  well. 
We  stand.  All  well.  Seen  the  Tender  ?* 

On  the  third  day  the  watchers  on  the  Red  Kentish  Knockf 
espied  a  body  floating  in  the  trough  of  the  waves,  and  calling  to 
each  other  the  men  told  of  the  trouble  that  would  fall  on  the 
homes  ashore  when  the  roll-call  of  the  gale  was  read.  But 
they  knew  not  that  none  would  weep  for  the  dead  they  saw, 
for  they  knew  not  Saunderson,  and  it  was  he  who  drove  about 

Trinity  boat.     fA  lightship. 

406 


EPILOGUE  407 

in  the  whirling  spume  and  presently  came  to  ground  on  the 
northern  sands. 

Here  he  lay  who  had  wrought  so  much  suffering.  Unsought, 
unwept,  unburied;  his  brawny  limbs  naked  to  the  driving 
seas,  he  lay  there — the  man  of  destiny;  a  product  of  modern 
civilisation;  brainy,  full  of  subtle  argument,  crammed  to  the 
eyes  with  distorted  fact — believing  nothing;  believing  all 
things. 

The  Gat  received  him.  It  bared  its  teeth  to  give  him  wel- 
come. The  shells  rilled  up  and  formed  terraces  about  him. 
He  stared  wide-eyed  into  the  sheen. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A     000  029  973     5 


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